tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13292942732721891972016-09-07T23:37:57.685-05:00Leap of FaithWelcome to the home of the words in my head! They seem to have a life of their own so I built them this cozy nest with a little welcome mat at the door! Please come by for a visit. Linger awhile. Bring a cup of tea. Be patient and we'll see if they learn to fly!ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-50590562178881771012011-08-11T13:52:00.003-05:002011-08-11T16:30:34.665-05:00Vashti Speer 1907<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Yhg4Z8V_ekM/TkQgi86SVcI/AAAAAAAAA_4/NxZ5DOCYu-Y/s1600/diary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Yhg4Z8V_ekM/TkQgi86SVcI/AAAAAAAAA_4/NxZ5DOCYu-Y/s400/diary.jpg" width="311" /></a></div><span class="fullpost">&nbsp; </span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">I just spent the morning with Vashti Speer.&nbsp; </span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">All I know of her are snippets of her experiences from the year 1907.&nbsp; I happened on to her diary from that year online through the Cherokee Strip Museum (Perry,&nbsp; Oklahoma) and I have read the entire thing this morning.&nbsp; She writes in almost my grandmother's handwriting and almost my grandmother's voice.&nbsp; </span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">Vashti Speer was born September 12, 1877, a contemporary of my great grandmothers: Nona, Augusta, Montree, Georgianna.&nbsp; I treasure the inside view into&nbsp;Vashti's life and, indirectly, into the lives of my&nbsp;foremothers&nbsp;as well.</span><br /><br />Many things intrigue me about Vashti.&nbsp; <br /><br />First, how does one born in Kansas in 1877 come to be named Vashti -- especially with siblings named William, Judith, and Belle? I'm sure there's quite a story there.<br /><br />Vashti speaks of her husband, Lawrence, primarily in terms of his comings and goings, of his work in the fields planting corn, oats, wheat, and cotton, and, occasionally, of his help around the house.&nbsp; He bought her a new stove.&nbsp; He helped her pare apples.&nbsp; He helped her take up the carpet to clean it.&nbsp; She does not speak of him in any intimate, loving way.&nbsp; <br /><br />Lawrence was often away -- travelling to nearby towns for business or at "the lodge" or the Farmer's Union.&nbsp; On one occasion, she says he came home sober.&nbsp; Does that mean often he didn't?&nbsp; In one entry, she said that if Lawrence had come home as "happy" as the "darkies" hired to pick cotton that she wouldn't be able to say so even in her little book.&nbsp; Hmmm...<br /><br />There is also no reference to how long&nbsp;Vashti and Lawrence&nbsp;have been married.&nbsp; Vashti is celebrates her 30th birthday during the year of her diary.&nbsp; Her only child, a daughter named Gertrude (nicknamed Gertie or "Girlie") is of the age of dolls and stick horses (probably the same age as my grandfather who was born in 1902).&nbsp; I wonder if Vashti and Lawrence married at age 18 or 20 as was typical at that time.&nbsp; I wonder why they have no other children.&nbsp; I wonder what their relationship was really like.&nbsp; I wish she had written some of the private details.&nbsp; Such a voyeur am I!<br /><br />Much of Vashti's diary is a chronicle of the weather and of visits with family and friends.&nbsp; Amazingly, she almost never complains about being hot or cold.&nbsp; More often, rain, or the lack thereof, interferes with visiting and with farm life.&nbsp; Of her husband she said he is "always lost when it rains", not knowing what to do with himself when he can't be out working.<br /><br />Vashti talks of selling butter, hens, and eggs.&nbsp; She talks of "pie plant pie" which is, apparently, rhubarb pie.&nbsp; She talks of frying chicken, canning peaches, beets, and apple butter.&nbsp; She talks of laundry and sewing and ironing.&nbsp; Three times she says she has made a dress for Gertie.&nbsp; Once she says her father has brought her a new dress.&nbsp; And once she reports that her father has brought her the pattern to make a dress for her mother.<br /><br />She also talks of building a chicken coop.&nbsp; I can relate!&nbsp; I'm still working on mine.&nbsp; I think she made hers in just a few days.<br /><br />I was amazed (after having spent much of last weekend in cemeteries!) that in the course of a whole year, Vasti never mentions a death.&nbsp; On the contrary, they celebrate her grandfather's 91st birthday and she comments on how fit and healthy he is.<br /><br />I was amused on a couple of occasions at Vashti's humor in the midst of struggle.&nbsp; Once she said she'd never owned a rolling pin and, if she had, she'd have had to use it to make dinner -- not to cook with but to burn for heat.&nbsp; Secondly, she says the wheat crop is so bad that all the wheat on the farm might not amount to one biscuit.&nbsp; She also speaks of making a sofa pillow and then , the next day, laments that her sofa is homemade.&nbsp; At Christmas, Gertie asks Santa for&nbsp;a doll with real hair and "eyes that sleep" (close).&nbsp; Vashti reports that, because of finances,&nbsp;only the doll's head and hands can be store bought.&nbsp; The rest must be homemade.<br /><br />Holiday commemorations are of interest to me in Vashti's diary.&nbsp; They worked on the 4th of July and celebrated only with cake and ice cream with friends at the end of the day.&nbsp; For Thanksgiving, no turkey was to be had so they cooked "an old hen".&nbsp; At Christmas, Gertie received a doll, a little broom, a Mother Goose book, mittens, and candy.&nbsp; Vashti does not report receiving any gifts herself for either her birthday or Christmas.&nbsp; She never even mentioned Gertie's birthday or Lawrence's.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; She did, however, mention her own only to report feeling old at turning 30 and saying that she and Lawrence were getting to old to dance.&nbsp; <br /><br />I was very disappointed when, early in December, Vashti writes that she has decided not to continue with her diary for another year.&nbsp; She says:<br /><br />"<em>Well, this year will soon be gone and this little book soon be finished. I think this will be my last attempt at keeping a diary. My life has not been an unhappy one but a very uneventful one. Too practical and not enough sentiment and romance to make good reading."</em><br /><br />I thought it was good reading!<br /><br />I was quite impressed that she never missed a day of writing in her diary until the middle of December.&nbsp; Her last entry was on Christmas.&nbsp; I wish someone had given her another diary for Christmas as&nbsp;someone had the year before which is what got her to chronicle the year 1907.&nbsp; If she only knew that her diary would be in a museum 104 years in the future!&nbsp; (I hope that knowledge would have encouraged to her write more rather than to be too intimidated to write at all.)&nbsp; I would have loved to have heard more.&nbsp; A couple of times she writes what are essentially "hashtags".&nbsp; If only she'd known how ahead of her time she was she might have had more confidence in her writing!<br /><br />I have googled&nbsp;the name and found no other information on Vashti Speer.&nbsp; No photo. No obituary.&nbsp; No genealogical records.&nbsp; I feel as if I know her now.&nbsp; But I don't even know what she looked like.<br /><br />I owe her a debt of gratitude for sharing her life with me.&nbsp; And for inspiring me.&nbsp; Perhaps I will jot down a brief page per day in a diary of my own.&nbsp; Only I will put in all the juicy stuff and try to document what's really important!&nbsp; Vashti gave me a glimpse of her life.&nbsp; Beyond that, what I would really like to know about is what was on her heart.&nbsp; <br /><br /><br /><br />ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-91140782136517061222011-08-10T11:16:00.005-05:002011-08-10T12:39:55.779-05:00Whew! That was Scary!: Life on the Rowdy Oklahoma Plains<span class="fullpost">(I kind of feel&nbsp;like a whiner posting this but it WAS an amazing experience!)</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span class="fullpost">&nbsp; </span><br /><span class="fullpost">Mark is an amazing meteorologist.&nbsp; I can recognize weather when I see it.&nbsp; He can tell you it's coming before it shows up.&nbsp; He talks about "mare's tails" (a type of cloud) and high pressure domes and he can see a faint something on the horizon that means we shouldn't bother to wash the car.&nbsp; </span><br /><br />Yesterday, as we were poking around town trying to sqeeze the most out of our long anniversary weekend (and pouting that I had to leave ON our anniversary), he spotted some clues:&nbsp; It was 101 in Enid but, up the road in Wichita, it was cool.&nbsp; "This is going to be bad", he declared confident of his conclusion.&nbsp; He eyed the clouds and told me I'd better get on the road before the storm came.&nbsp; I sulked a bit but I left.&nbsp; It was almost&nbsp;time to go anyway.&nbsp; <br /><br />As the Western sky grew an ever-deepening shade of steely blue-gray, I&nbsp;drove out of town headed East.&nbsp; Ahead, to the Northeast, I could see a rain shower.&nbsp; It didn't look like much:&nbsp; puffy&nbsp;white clouds on top of&nbsp;long quenching streams of rain falling from the sky to the parched, thirsty&nbsp;ground.&nbsp; I felt confident that I could get past it before it disrupted the freshly-washed finish Mark had put on my car.&nbsp; <br /><br />The "wet" pavement ahead kept turning out to be mirages as I drove on, confident.&nbsp; <br /><br />About 20 miles outside of town, right&nbsp;before the Garfield/Noble county line, the rain caught me.&nbsp; Then the wind gusts started lashing out and I felt like I was riding on roller skates with a sail.&nbsp; Bits of paper and debris blasted across the road in front of the car as the strong gust front took hold.&nbsp; I felt lucky that there were no other cars near me as an unexpected gust could have put&nbsp;anyone in&nbsp;another lane in the blink of an eye.<br /><br />I slowed way down and&nbsp;finally turned South on the county line road out of a true concern that the wind could roll my car off the road.&nbsp; Even with my back to the wind, the&nbsp;car rocked and heaved upward.&nbsp; I remembered all the cars we saw in the rubble in Joplin after the F5 tornado hit there.&nbsp; Many had been launched into the air and thrown violently back down to Earth.&nbsp; They said that a lot of the cars laying smashed on the ground had bodies in them.&nbsp; This must have been how those people felt at the beginning.<br /><br />I&nbsp;surveyed the flat terrain in all directions and drove on a little further down the gravel road looking for shelter.&nbsp; I grew up in Oklahoma, I know that a car is not safe shelter beyond a certain windspeed.&nbsp; In every direction were flat fields.&nbsp; The ditch beside the road, a mere depression, wouldn't really help me much.&nbsp; <br /><br />Within a quarter of a mile I found my hidey hole:&nbsp; A 36" diameter drain pipe that went under the road.&nbsp; I parked with my driver's door right above the culvert and planned to dive into the pipe if need be -- fully willing to share the space with any raccoon or other creature&nbsp;that might already inhabit it (hoping that snakes didn't figure into the equation).&nbsp; I kept scanning all around me for the tornado I felt must be near.&nbsp; It felt as if I was in the the vicinity of&nbsp;a couple of them. <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--EEf4uLPr44/TkKkuI-lYDI/AAAAAAAAA_c/nkUWSrF5o_Y/s1600/hidey+hole.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--EEf4uLPr44/TkKkuI-lYDI/AAAAAAAAA_c/nkUWSrF5o_Y/s1600/hidey+hole.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My hidey hole.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />I watched the trees and the tall grass bend as the fierce wind beat them.&nbsp; More bits and pieces of things blew by at rapid speed.&nbsp; Lightning flashed regularly.&nbsp; My cell phone threatened to die.&nbsp;&nbsp;Ugh&nbsp;(my car charger takes almost an hour to revive it if it goes completely dead).&nbsp; I called Mark to tell him where I was so he would know where to start looking for me if I blew away.&nbsp; He said the storm I had originally been trying to avoid had just blown forcefully&nbsp;through Enid.<br /><br />To the Southeast, I could see the clouds get caught in a downdraft, be dragged downward, flow along the ground, and then start to rise with an updraft.&nbsp; Two fields to the West of me, a whole field of dust swirled upward into a funnel shape that died down and then reformed several times.&nbsp; I've seen enough tornado footage on the Discovery Channel to know that tornados start from the ground and go up -- or at least, you can't see them until they start to pick up debris. It looked like a funnel&nbsp;TO ME.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-viwprktoKG0/TkKslbo6EEI/AAAAAAAAA_o/G9IUHrHUv0Y/s1600/gustnado.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-viwprktoKG0/TkKslbo6EEI/AAAAAAAAA_o/G9IUHrHUv0Y/s1600/gustnado.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What I saw was bigger than this stock meteorology photo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br /><br />Then the wind shifted and started blowing strongly&nbsp;from the East.&nbsp; Soon after, the wind died down.&nbsp; Mark encouraged me to get on down the road ahead of the storm that had gone through Enid but hadn't reached me yet.&nbsp; So I headed East again.&nbsp; <br /><br />Three miles down the road I came over a slight hill and found myself gazing across an amazing scene.&nbsp; Three tractor-trailer trucks were overturned and laying in the road at what must have been the point of the strongest winds.&nbsp; Two had blown over from where they were parked on the north shoulder.&nbsp; The third had apparently turned off to the South on a gravel road like I had.&nbsp; It had been toppled by the wind from the East that came at the end.&nbsp; One of the truck drivers was trying to retrieve belongings from his smashed cab, another held an ice-pack made from a plaid shirt to his head, the third had been laid in the back of an SUV that had stopped to help, his feet sticking out of the open back, his legs wrapped in plastic for warmth.&nbsp; <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-30nJFZi-i7o/TkKspn1HiPI/AAAAAAAAA_s/B_JhoFsKpps/s1600/semi.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-30nJFZi-i7o/TkKspn1HiPI/AAAAAAAAA_s/B_JhoFsKpps/s1600/semi.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not one of this trucks I saw.&nbsp; This is a stock photo.&nbsp; But this is the gist of it -- times three.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br /><br />I stopped to take pictures of the semis (alas, the pictures got erased by a little tantrum my phone threw) and then continued East.&nbsp; Within two miles, I caught up with the storm.&nbsp; The same strong wind gusts and rain started to beat against my car again.&nbsp; Still shaking from my first encounter with the storm, I decided that I was too shaken up to endure any more wind and rain.&nbsp; How stupid would it be to drive back into the storm I had just come out of?&nbsp; I turned around and headed back to Enid.&nbsp; This&nbsp;turned out to be a good decision as I would have been driving through severe thunderstorms for the next three hours if I'd continued toward home.&nbsp; <br /><br />On the way back to Enid I saw two cars with their side windows blown in.&nbsp; They were also limping back to Enid (I know they had turned back toward Enid&nbsp;because it was their driver side windows that were broken so they must have been going East for the wind from the North to have broken&nbsp;the windows).&nbsp; Most of the road signs were blown down.&nbsp; Pieces of corrogated tin barn roofs were strewn along the side of the road.&nbsp; No barns were in sight to indicate where this material had come from.&nbsp; I passed two ambulances and half a dozen emergency vehicles from the local rural fire departments&nbsp;as they&nbsp;headed out to where the semis were.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Mpjwc67sBvA/TkKkxaaftQI/AAAAAAAAA_g/tZAJ1MBPJd0/s1600/rood+tin.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Mpjwc67sBvA/TkKkxaaftQI/AAAAAAAAA_g/tZAJ1MBPJd0/s1600/rood+tin.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Someone's barn roof.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hryvkEGP5pc/TkKk45CB2CI/AAAAAAAAA_k/HNksx9n97dI/s1600/road+sign.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hryvkEGP5pc/TkKk45CB2CI/AAAAAAAAA_k/HNksx9n97dI/s1600/road+sign.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Break-away highway sign.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br /><br /><br />I have tried to research the windspeed at which car windows break.&nbsp; To no avail.&nbsp; I did, however, learn that windows in houses&nbsp;start to break in winds around 80 mph.&nbsp; The severe thunderstorm warning for the area I was in warned of 75 mph winds.&nbsp; Winds in Lahoma, on the other side of Enid, were clocked at 96 mph.&nbsp; I'm also not sure at what windspeed highway signs are designed to collapse (they have break-away latches&nbsp;on the&nbsp;posts).&nbsp; Let's just say <em>it was windy</em>.<br /><br />When I got to the hotel (where Mark was waiting for me), the hotel manager tried to tell me that, if the weather got bad, I should go to the middle of the first floor.&nbsp; "Thanks,"&nbsp; I told him, "I know.&nbsp; I grew up here."&nbsp; Which doesn't make me immune to shaking for a couple of hours afterward!<br /><br />I know the signs well enough to have recognized "tornado green" in Southern California.&nbsp; In 1990, when I was living in Irvine, California, I looked out my window into a rain storm and noticed that the sky was that shade of green that means "tornado" in Oklahoma.&nbsp; "Nah," I thought to myself, "Couldn't be.&nbsp; There aren't tornados in California."&nbsp; Turns out there was a very rare tornado about a mile and a half away.&nbsp; I had recognized the color.&nbsp; <br /><br />Another Enid girl, Mark's cousin Ann, was driving North to South on I-35 (6 or 7 miles East of where I was) during the same storm I was in.&nbsp; She felt confident that she saw a funnel in the direction of where I was.&nbsp; She would know.&nbsp; She's an Oklahoma girl!&nbsp; <br /><br />In retrospect, I'm proud to be an Oklahoma girl and proud to have acquired enough knowledge to have done the right things.&nbsp; I have always told my girls, as each of them has gone through a childhood phase of being terrified of storms, that they don't have to worry, that I know what to look for, and that I will tell them when to worry and I will keep them safe if things get bad.&nbsp; I am confident that I know what I need to know to do so.&nbsp; I also know that you have to be below ground level to survive an F5.&nbsp; May I never have to use that knowledge!<br /><br />That is definitely the last time I try to outrun a storm on my way out of Enid!<br /><br />ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-54214167907979487332011-07-15T15:04:00.001-05:002011-08-10T09:20:17.348-05:00Coincidence<span class="fullpost">This has been a week full of coincidences for me.&nbsp; The cosmos has been working overtime.&nbsp; There have been amazing coincidences galore.&nbsp; Enough to make me think I should take notice.&nbsp; So I have.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BnpGZaY6kvo/TiBsOwJvAWI/AAAAAAAAA60/y96pAGdrYno/s1600/Chomper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BnpGZaY6kvo/TiBsOwJvAWI/AAAAAAAAA60/y96pAGdrYno/s200/Chomper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><br />It started with a puppy head.&nbsp; Don't worry -- it was still attached to the rest of the puppy.&nbsp; I remember somewhere in alpha dreamland, a puppy head being thrust through my cracked-open bedroom door and Emily saying, "Don't worry -- it's not staying."&nbsp; Famous last words.<br /><br />The next morning, I got up, met the puppy more formally, and heard the whole story about how Emily confiscated him from a&nbsp;guy she knows who, after the&nbsp;puppy romance of a mere month had worn off,&nbsp;was going to dump the poor little guy&nbsp;in the woods.&nbsp; Or his mother was going to shoot it (I'm assured that she really would do it despite my deep desire to think that no such cruel people exist).&nbsp; So I now commend Emily for her actions.<br /><br />I put&nbsp;cute little-puppy-guy's&nbsp;photo on Facebook as a wild stab in the dark of a first attempt.&nbsp; Emily tried to put an ad on Craigslist but it wouldn't load.&nbsp; Ugh.<br /><br />It took exactly 11 minutes for my friend and co-worker, Christy, to offer to take the puppy.&nbsp; That was miraculously FAST!&nbsp; <br /><br />I was a little worried.&nbsp; He's rottweiler and pit bull&nbsp; (even though the best dog I ever had was a pit bull, I know people have their fears and prejudices) and ALL mischievious puppy -- complete with&nbsp;all the trappings of rampant teething, inevitable "gift" leaving,&nbsp;clumsy feet that are&nbsp;WAY too big for him, and&nbsp; tendency to get bored and come up with something you'd never have thought of.&nbsp; In the space of half an hour he wrestled the curtains, attached himself to the dust mop so as to make cleaning the floor a mere dream, and was utterly unsuccessful at convincing the cats to be his playmates.&nbsp; He did finally find friends: a plastic Easter egg, an ice cube, and a soda can.&nbsp; <br /><br />Despite my worries, Christy now reports that he is the "best and cutest pup ever".&nbsp; Whew!<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qok83XWxvzo/TiBsQEVhLHI/AAAAAAAAA64/A6sU1qF6Nu4/s1600/Christy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qok83XWxvzo/TiBsQEVhLHI/AAAAAAAAA64/A6sU1qF6Nu4/s200/Christy.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br /><br />He couldn't have gone to a better home.&nbsp; Christy is smart and responsible, has the hugest heart for animals, and lives on her own little 8-acre horse farm with dogs and cats and, of course... horses.<br /><br />I was curious about what Christy would name this puppy who had the previous and very unfortunate name of "Axel".&nbsp; Emily and I dubbed him "Chomper" for Facebook purposes but we knew he had yet to find his true name.<br /><br />The following day, Christy texted me that she had settled on a name: "Roscoe".&nbsp; She said, "I just kept calling him 'Roscoe'.&nbsp; I don't know why."&nbsp; <br /><br />"Maybe because that's his name!" I replied.<br /><br />I texted Emily that his new name was Roscoe.&nbsp; She texted me right back saying, "I almost named him the exact same thing!"&nbsp; How amazingly uncanny!&nbsp; Of all the possible names...&nbsp; Guess that really WAS his name!<br /><br />****<br /><br />Next came my step-son's 11th birthday.&nbsp; Noah was born on 7/14 at 7:14 and weighed, yes, 7lbs 14oz.&nbsp; I'm not sure about the formal numberological implications of that&nbsp;but I do know it's something special.&nbsp; Mark had some mathematician friend figure&nbsp;up that the odds of such a thing are one in&nbsp;96 million (or something mind-stretching like that).&nbsp; At the very least, Noah is special and his run on the number 7/14 serves to remind us of that if nothing else.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LOLR0VNtt7w/TiBsSzUymCI/AAAAAAAAA68/5afKqT1iqb4/s1600/Noah+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LOLR0VNtt7w/TiBsSzUymCI/AAAAAAAAA68/5afKqT1iqb4/s200/Noah+3.jpg" width="120" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noah Christian Coppock</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br /><br />****<br /><br />The next incidence of coincidence came as I drove diagonally across the outer regions of the grocery store parking lot.&nbsp; I was talking with Mark on&nbsp;my cell phone and we were just saying that we haven't been to church in forever and we need to start going again when I had to jam on the breaks to keep from hitting another car.&nbsp; The driver of that car, of course, was the pastor of that church that we haven't been to in forever!&nbsp; Again, uncanny!&nbsp; {Check out <a href="http://www.vintagefellowship.org/">http://www.vintagefellowship.org/</a> if you have even the slightest interest in a hip young church where is ok to ask questions and not have all the answers.}<br /><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1Qhb1Qyp8nA/TiB5nY1lnPI/AAAAAAAAA7E/L4nIVNle5z4/s1600/Robb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1Qhb1Qyp8nA/TiB5nY1lnPI/AAAAAAAAA7E/L4nIVNle5z4/s1600/Robb.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robb Ryerse, Vintage Fellowship</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">****</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>One day the pastor at the church I work for mentioned that the ice maker in the church kitchen made really great ice.&nbsp; I didn't think much of it at the time but the comment stuck in my head.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rYFPB70Npq4/TiCbuDfcAeI/AAAAAAAAA7M/hUXYsX79t4o/s1600/ice.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rYFPB70Npq4/TiCbuDfcAeI/AAAAAAAAA7M/hUXYsX79t4o/s1600/ice.bmp" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ice</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A couple of weeks ago, I was trying to figure out how I'd EVER break my two-a-day diet Dr. Pepper habit.&nbsp; I lived for them.&nbsp; It turns out that, when I did quit the diet DP and was searching for a replacement, that ice came into play in a very important way.&nbsp; Now I am almost two weeks diet DP free and, instead,&nbsp; every day at work I have a couple of glasses of ice water with that wonderful ice from the church kitchen.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Seems like God was trying to give the the answer via the pastor!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">****</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Mark was telling me a story he'd heard about a man who's father was struck and killed by lightning.&nbsp; And then, 45 years later,&nbsp;the son was struck and killed by lightning TOO!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l-7W1gWWCtM/TiCVOVRaU5I/AAAAAAAAA7I/ul_qJKy39ms/s1600/lightning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" m$="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l-7W1gWWCtM/TiCVOVRaU5I/AAAAAAAAA7I/ul_qJKy39ms/s400/lightning.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/father-son-die-lightning-strikes-48-years/story?id=14080318">http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/father-son-die-lightning-strikes-48-years/story?id=14080318</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">****</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm hoping that coincidences are enough and that God doesn't have to strike me with a bolt of lightning to get my attention!&nbsp; Coincidences DO tend to get my attention better than most things.&nbsp; If I was God and had to make an impression without being just plain obvious, I'd be a little heavy-handed with the coincidences too.&nbsp; </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You can always wonder if you're just reading something into nothing.&nbsp; You can always explain it away somehow.&nbsp; But why?&nbsp; As humans, we tend to seek meaning.&nbsp; At least, I know I do.&nbsp; And I'll take meaning and the grace that accompanies it in any way I can get it.&nbsp; At the very least, coincidences encourage me to take a closer look at something that I might easily have glossed over.&nbsp; They can trigger decisions.&nbsp; They can bring on a smile.&nbsp; They can highlight what's really important.&nbsp; Or not.&nbsp; But I prefer to take them at full intensity.&nbsp; To me, they have God's fingerprints all over them.</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">****﻿</div>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-47558486459166071882011-06-14T11:24:00.002-05:002011-06-15T06:50:59.792-05:00My Lifelong Cosmic Lesson in First Impressions<span class="fullpost"><br /><br />Do you ever look at someone and just dislike them on sight? It's not a very kind way of approaching the world but sometimes it just happens. Whenever I feel this way I remember a lesson that I keep finding myself being taught -- over and over and over again.<br /><br /><br /><u>Jocelyn</u><br /><br />The first cosmic lesson of this sort that I remember was Jocelyn Wolfe. It was the week before 7th grade. The air was hot and muggy in the low-slung cafeteria building. Flies pestered the hot and intimidated and generally lost incoming middle school students as we waited in several lines to get our schedules for the school year from the advisors sitting behind lined-up lunch tables. The girl in the line next to me annoyed me on sight. We kept eyeing each other in an unfriendly way. Her teeth were a little on the buck side. She wore glasses and an unfriendly smirk. I seriously disliked her on sight. I got the impression that she didn't think too highly of me either. Guess who ended up becoming my best friend? Jocelyn and I survived some of those awkward early pubescent terrors together -- you know, like boys and impending boobs and periods. Kind of like combat buddies!<br /><br /><br /><u>Marty</u><br /><br />Years later, in my early 20's, I was involved in an adoption search and support group. The monthly meetings were held in a large church meeting hall. We pulled chairs in to a large circle -- sometimes 50-60 people around -- and shared the joys and sorrows and frustrations of our searches as we got closer and closer to finding and reuniting with our birthfamilies or children relinquished for adoption. It was always an amazing process of blindly embracing strangers/newcomers who gradually became friends with whom we shared our hearts and souls and our common goal of finding our parents and our children -- and the side effect of finding ourselves in the process. I loved to here these people tell their stories. I loved that they listened to mine.<br /><br />At one large meeting, I found myself seated across the circle from two women in their 40's. I couldn't help but look at them a lot because they were in my direct eyeshot. I think I ended up staring a lot. Particularly at one of them. Something about her fascinated me. Was it her short, whispy ash-blonde hair? The mischeivious. twinkle in her blue eyes? Her nervous mannerisms? I ended up focusing on her perfectly manicured, long, red finger nails. She was the definition of good grooming. I loved that she took such good care of herself. But she made me uncomfortable for some reason. I decided that I didn't like her and had no desire to be around her. Again, guess who turned out to be my best friend? Guess who knows me better than I know myself, who pushes me to face sometimes uncomforable truths, who shines a light on the really deep issues. That's my beloved Marty Smith. She has been "family of choice" to me for the last twenty years. She has enriched my life in many deep and magical ways.<br /><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/41762_1215243925_426_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Marty Smith" avglschecked="1" border="0" class="photo img" id="profile_pic" src="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/41762_1215243925_426_n.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><u>Dave</u></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I have a little side business called Upstage. I stage houses. This means that I optimize them with furniture and accessories to look their best so they will sell faster and for more money. Before I became a realtor, I had staged a house for a builder. The house was listed with a realtor, Dave Bevis. I saw his name on the sign many times as I worked on the house but I did not meet him until much later. When I got my real estate license and started working at Bassett Mix, I finally crossed paths with Dave. I introduced myself and he gave me a brief, gruff hello. I decided I didn't like him much. He seemed gruff and unpleasant. What I didn't realize until later was that most of my issue with Dave was my own jealousy that he had the listing on the house I staged. I guess I had gotten a little territorial about the house and, in my wanting and working to become a realtor, I envied how far ahead of me he was. That "gruff and unpleasant" man that I thought I didn't like turned out to be a warm, funny, kinda-shy-at-first kind soul who has, out of the goodness of his heart, given me lots of opportunities in real estate and has become the first person I turn to for real estate advice. I owe him a lot.<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://bassettmix.com/Agents/profile.asp?id=2447" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Northwest Arkansas Real Estate" border="0" height="149px" src="http://www.bassettmix.com/Agents/images/2447.jpg" width="100px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I've been given enough of these cosmic lessons that I have finally learned. Now, whenever I meet or encounter someone new that I don't like, I remind myself and I get a little excited -- I may have just met my new best friend! At the very least, I treat them with more kindness and compassion because I have learned that you never know what wonders might lie behind a bad first impression!</div>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-60943376860973243822011-05-20T11:24:00.002-05:002011-05-20T11:28:16.976-05:00Healthy Cookie Experiment #1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3ZM_Duzsgw4/TdaQchayndI/AAAAAAAAA1E/TPceKYn1d0I/s1600/cookies.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3ZM_Duzsgw4/TdaQchayndI/AAAAAAAAA1E/TPceKYn1d0I/s1600/cookies.bmp" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These are my first stab at trying to&nbsp;capitalize on my cookie addiction by filling cookies with all the healthy things I SHOULD be eating.&nbsp; These came out a little gummy, quite heavy,&nbsp;and tasting, well... healthy.&nbsp; But Tessa liked them and they're kind of growing on me.&nbsp; Everyone says they need more sugar.&nbsp; Must work on texture next time -- hard to accomplish with only 2 tablespoons of olive oil!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Model #1 contains:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1 grated zucchini</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">2 grated carrots</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1/2 cup raisins</div><br />1 diced Granny Smith apple<br />1 tablespoon lemon juice<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1 1/2 cups whole wheat flour</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1 1/2 cups oats</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1 /2 cup ground flax seed</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1/2 cup sorghum</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1 cup of the pear juice that my canned peaches were packed in</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">2 Tablespoons olive oil</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1 egg</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">2&nbsp;teaspoons baking powder</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1/2 teaspoon salt</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Next time I think I'll add applesauce, banana, canned pumpkin, honey and baking soda (instead of baking powder).&nbsp; Maybe walnuts too!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Any suggestions?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm kind of glad you can't taste them!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">﻿</div><span class="fullpost"></span>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-23202329979033118142011-05-06T10:53:00.002-05:002011-05-06T12:47:48.430-05:00The World's Healthiest Cookies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="fullpost" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img class="rg_hi" data-height="125" data-width="126" height="125px" id="rg_hi" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTkgy0TujPaypZUytK5mGpczu38Q_qQy6qDkvgQ4i_-guSsWeiiYw" style="height: 125px; width: 126px;" width="126px" /></span></div><br /><span class="fullpost" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hi, my name is Annie and I'm an addict.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="fullpost" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have a serious milk and cookie habit.&nbsp; I could live on milk and cookies.&nbsp; Often, I do.&nbsp; </span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm pretty sure my youngest daughter was formed almost entirely out of milk and cookies because that's largely what I ate for the nine months I was cooking her.&nbsp; Forget "bun in the oven" -- she was my "cookie in the oven"!&nbsp; "Cookie" is one of her nicknames.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I remember lovingly a little friend who's first word was "cookie".&nbsp; The word served Hilary well in that it also meant "Daddy" and "Katie".&nbsp; We often interrogated her to determine which she meant.&nbsp; She had the right idea:&nbsp; all things cookie!</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I was in high school I came across a recipe for Breakfast Cookies.&nbsp; They had oatmeal and apples and raisins and cheddar cheese.&nbsp; They were great and carried a lesser load of guilty than regular cookies.&nbsp; For some reason, I only made them once.&nbsp; But they have remained in my mind for&nbsp;the couple of decades since -- always with the thought that I could improve on them in terms of healthiness.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yesterday, I bought two packs of Oreos (actually, the Walmart Great Value generic called&nbsp;"Twist and Shout" which are just as good).&nbsp; One package&nbsp;is for the church office (keep in mind that I'm often the only one there!) and one goes in the top drawer of my night stand next to my bed (I must have milk and cookies and bedtime, of course, and sometimes for breakfast too).&nbsp; </span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Oreos made me think though:&nbsp; I don't need decadent cookies.&nbsp; Really, I just need the carb hit.&nbsp; So I could stick some healthy things on the carbs and be much better off while still&nbsp;indulging my weakness.&nbsp; Why not make it work for me?&nbsp; I was telling my daughter yesterday that the good thing about addictions in that you can make yourself become addicted to something that is good for you!&nbsp; So here's my new strategy:&nbsp; I will devise the healthiest cookie recipe possible and then hope the resulting cookies go as well with V8 juice as they do with milk (because I should only have so much milk).&nbsp; And then I will cultivate the proper addiction.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A few years ago I got curious and did some independent research on alternative cures for cancer.&nbsp; I'm not sure I discovered the cure for cancer but I did learn about nitrilosides, Vitamin B17, amygdaline,&nbsp;and laetrile.&nbsp; Basically, these three substances are different&nbsp;versions of the same thing -- all of which can potentially prevent or destroy cancer cells.&nbsp; The theory is that cancer is&nbsp;caused by a deficiency of Vitamin B17 just as&nbsp;scurvy is a deficiency of&nbsp;Vitamin&nbsp;C.&nbsp; I'm not saying that this&nbsp;is 100% fact, but adding some healthy foods into my diet isn't going to hurt anything.&nbsp; (Here's one reference to an article on the subject: </span><a href="http://www.newswithviews.com/Howenstine/james53.htm"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">http://www.newswithviews.com/Howenstine/james53.htm</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> though I don't vouch for this author or agree with some of this other topics).</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Foods that are high in vitamin B17 tend to be&nbsp;traditional foods that have largely fallen out of our diets. In the modern American diet, sugar cane has largely replaced sorghum and wheat has replaced millet.&nbsp; In the past, our ancestors regularly ate many B17-leaden foods that we no longer eat such as&nbsp;quince, choke cherry, elderberry, huckleberry, gooseberry, alfalfa, cassava, watercress, lentils, beet tops, lima beans.&nbsp; Thus we seem to be getting much less Vitamin B17 than people did in the past.&nbsp; </span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Other foods that&nbsp;contain B17 are fava beans, garbanzo beans (chick peas), mung beans (often used as bean sprouts), black-eyed peas, black beans, squash seeds, raspberries, blackberries, blueberries,&nbsp;cranberries, flax seed, buckwheat, millet, sorghum, maize, grasses, linseed, and bitter almonds </span><a href="http://www.vitaminb17.org/foods.htm"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(http://www.vitaminb17.org/foods.htm</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">).</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Always one to go for prevention, I have tried to add Vitamin B17-containing foods into my diet where ever possible.&nbsp; I start most days with 12-grain toast (containing millet, flax, and buckwheat) with sorghum.&nbsp; I try to snack on hummus (made from garbanzo beans).&nbsp; I serve lentils and sweet potatoes more often than most people do.&nbsp; I add spinach to recipes whenever possible.&nbsp; Buckwheat pancakes are still pancakes and will be willingly consumed by most children.&nbsp; And I ADORE gooseberry pie!&nbsp; It is my very favorite kind of pie.&nbsp; It's just hard to find goose berries these days!&nbsp; Have you ever had gooseberry pie?&nbsp; I'm willing to bet you haven't!</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have worked dilgently at cramming as many healthy things as possible into my cookie recipe.&nbsp; I'll let you know after I have destroyed my kitchen&nbsp;in a grand endeavor to&nbsp;figure out the proper proportions of the ingredients.&nbsp; Here's what I have so far:</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="fullpost" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span class="fullpost" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>The World's Healthiest Cookie Recipe Ingredients</u></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="fullpost" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">oatmeal</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">walnuts</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">flax seed</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">millet</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">olive oil</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">applesauce</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">raisins</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">honey or sorghum</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">carrots</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">zucchini</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">apples</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">egg white</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">whole wheat flour or buckwheat flour</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the course of looking for healthy cookie recipes, I found a really wonderful blog called Sweet Potato Soul (</span><a href="http://www.sweetpotatosoul.com/"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">http://www.sweetpotatosoul.com/</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">).&nbsp; It has wonderful, healthy, colorful recipes that just make me want run to the farmer's market and then&nbsp;to go home and cook until I can't find the counter anymore and there are no more clean dishes in the kitchen!</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For now, I have bottle of milk and a piece of multi-berry pie which I almost completely justified above so...</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bon Appetit!</span><br /><br /><a href="http://mail.aol.com/33646-311/aol-6/en-us/mail/get-attachment.aspx?uid=29933940&amp;folder=NewMail&amp;partId=1" target="_blank"><img class="AOLAttachedImage" filename="photo.JPG" partid="1" src="http://mail.aol.com/33646-311/aol-6/en-us/mail/get-attachment.aspx?uid=29933940&amp;folder=NewMail&amp;partId=1" style="border-bottom: #dadad6 1px solid; border-left: #dadad6 1px solid; border-right: #dadad6 1px solid; border-top: #dadad6 1px solid; cursor: pointer; height: 206px; margin-bottom: 30px; visibility: visible; width: 275px;" /></a>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-82885490722616508522011-05-05T10:14:00.003-05:002011-05-06T09:19:15.662-05:00Hairnets and Halos: The Fairy-Godmother Lunch Ladies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="fullpost" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img class="rg_hi" data-height="266" data-width="190" height="266px" id="rg_hi" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSziefuv6D-qwfAR5F_Ls4EGjKumSqsbLKQq_PnE7mtOyjlMKLt" style="height: 266px; width: 190px;" width="190px" /></span></div><br /><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">My second daughter, Tesakiah (sounds like "Hezakiah" from the Bible in case you need a little help with the pronounciation), is an 8th grader at Ramay Junior High School.&nbsp; Yesterday, as I was giving her lunch money for the cafeteria on the way to school, she started telling me about the lunch ladies.</span><br /><br />I remember lunch ladies.&nbsp; Hair nets and grumpy attitudes are the stereotype.&nbsp; During my school years, I'm not sure I ever overcame the stereotype indoctrination&nbsp;enough to flesh out the true humanity of the hard-working women&nbsp;who were behind both the stereotype and the lunch counter.<br /><br />Tessa began to tell me about her lunch ladies (actually, one is a "lunch man" but, for the sake of poetic simplicity, I will lump him in with the ladies -- sorry Sir).&nbsp; It turns out that my daughter's lunch ladies are angels in hair nets instead of halos.&nbsp; I was so touched as Tessa (short for Tesakiah) told me that these&nbsp;7 or&nbsp;8 ladies pass out daily complements like cookies&nbsp;to the kids as they come through the lunch line.&nbsp; Daily!&nbsp; Tessa says she receives a compliment EVERY day.&nbsp; They all do.<br /><br />Tessa says she is known as "pretty necklace girl" as she&nbsp;often receives compliments on her jewelrey.&nbsp; This is particularly special to Tessa because she often uses her jewelry to&nbsp;clarify her racial identity and communicate that&nbsp;her heritage is Native American.<br /><br />The lunch ladies even remembered my first daughter, Emily, noticed the resemblance in Tessa, and remember that Emily ate mostly rolls and cookies during her junior high lunches.&nbsp; That's an amazing personal touch.<br /><br />Tessa recounted to me that many times the lunch ladies and their compliments have made her day.&nbsp; "Even on your worst day...", she explained, the lunch ladies provide a loving boost.<br /><br />I could just go hug each and every one of the lunch ladies.&nbsp; In fact, I just might!&nbsp; The gift they give my daughter in particular and the whole student body in general is priceless!&nbsp; And the piece of mind they give me, as a mother, that my child is in loving hands during her school day is priceless as well.&nbsp; <br /><br />The more I think about it, the more impressed and intrigued I become.&nbsp; These ladies could just sling peas and glob mashed potatoes on plastic trays and shove them at the kids, get their modest paycheck at the end of the week, and be done with it.&nbsp; Instead, they make a difference.&nbsp; That can't just be an accidental convergence of natural complimenters.&nbsp; I would be willing to wager that this is a conscious effort -- a ministry of sorts.&nbsp; These ladies must have pointedly chosen to&nbsp;distribute a little love with lunch.&nbsp; <br /><br />Those of us over 15 can remember how emotionally fragile we all were in junior high.&nbsp; We were&nbsp;insecure, unsure, scared and fragile, raw nerves&nbsp;with our guts hanging out&nbsp;-- just trying to figure out, on a minute-by-minute basis, who we were and how we fit into the world.&nbsp; With our changing bodies and voices, we navigated the social minefield&nbsp;while the world&nbsp;around us became increasingly complex with every increase in maturity.&nbsp; Not an easy time.<br /><br />A compliment is a silly little thing.&nbsp; "I like your shirt" is just a superficial opinion.&nbsp; But, oh, how it can make one's day!&nbsp; Ever been trudging through a challenging day or a negative mood and been given a complement only to have it completely spin you in a positive direction?&nbsp; It can be magic!&nbsp; There's a lot more to my Tessa than her pretty necklaces but&nbsp;most compliments are&nbsp;more about lifting up the person than about mere ojects and fashions.&nbsp; <br />I wonder how the lunch ladies' ministry began?&nbsp; I'm willing to bet that one of them sat through a sermon at church in which the congregation was encouraged to minister to those around them on a daily basis.&nbsp; Perhaps a light bulb went on above one hair-netted head!&nbsp; Serving lunch at a junior high is not glamourous work, but what an opportunity it presents for ministry when several hundred fragile adolescent egos file past you on a daily basis and you figure out a little something you can do to make a difference!&nbsp; These ladies touch more lives in the course of a&nbsp;week from behind the green beans than most ministers can touch from behind the pulpit on a Sunday morning.&nbsp; <br /><br />The lunch ladies&nbsp;may never know exactly how they helped or see the full reach of the impact they had on young lives but their touch&nbsp;is undoubtably precious and far-reaching.&nbsp; I still remember and cherish the daily positive regard I received from my junior high bus driver (God bless you Dan Dunn!).&nbsp; He got me off to a good start in the morning and put a salve on the end of some bad days.&nbsp; I'm sure he has no idea.<br /><br />This&nbsp;is ordinary magic -- that is, magic found in the ordinary.&nbsp; I try very hard to remember that God is in every moment and that, in each moment, there is an opportunity to give or to receive the grace of God.&nbsp; Here is a wonderful example.&nbsp; God bless the lunch ladies!&nbsp; The grace of God flows through them.ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-77345657527570147382011-01-13T09:36:00.002-06:002011-01-14T09:26:21.154-06:00Looking Forward To The Retirement Home!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span class="fullpost">When I was 18, I went away to college (Trinity University, San Antonio, Texas).&nbsp; I was given a dorm room and a "Vali-dine" card (Oh! And a whole bunch of pesky books!).&nbsp; </span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">A Vali-dine card was a wonderful and miraculous thing --&nbsp;I could just walk into the dining hall, get whatever food&nbsp;I wanted, slide the Vali-dine card through the machine at the checkout, and go eat with all&nbsp;my friends.&nbsp; It was that simple.&nbsp; Like magic!&nbsp; </span><br /><br />In my adulthood I've come to appreciate even more than I did back then the concept of a central, commercial kitchen where someone other than ME, plans the menu, procures the food, cooks the meals, and does the dishes!&nbsp; It takes me back to my childhood where food just APPEARED!<br /><br /><span class="fullpost">The girls in my dorm and the boys in the dorm across the courtyard quickly came to the collective concensus that Vali-Dine cards were really great.&nbsp; We also concluded that college would be really great if only we didn't have those pesky classes to go to!&nbsp; </span><span class="fullpost">We had our dorm rooms, our roommates, our suitemates, our friends, plenty of members of the opposite gender nearby, and regular&nbsp; mixers.&nbsp; We had a game room, a gym, a track, and courts for tennis, basketball, and raquetball.&nbsp; We had cars, the neighborhood bar (The Bombay Bicycle Club), and all of colorful San Antonio to play in.&nbsp; It was just those darn classes and all the studying that spoiled the fun.</span><br /><br />Then we figured out that the college set-up without the classes is what retirement&nbsp;homes are!&nbsp; You get the equivalent of a Vali-dine card, someone else does the cooking and cleaning and maintenance and manages all those other annoyimg details, and the residents are free to just PLAY!&nbsp;&nbsp;Except for wrinkles,&nbsp;illness, arthritis, Alzheimer's, impotence,&nbsp;and a few other downfalls of old age&nbsp;it's just about the perfect world in my eyes!&nbsp; At this point in my&nbsp;multi-wicked (as in, I burn my candle at MANY ends) adulthood, if classes were all I had to worry about, I'd be tickled to death (though not literally -- because one must watch out for things that end in death because they cut back on time in the retirement home!).<br /><br />I would LOVE to spend about 30 years (from say 82 to 112) living in the retirement home!&nbsp; I would read and write ALL DAY EVERY DAY!&nbsp; And, if I needed a break or new topics or plot twists, I could have play dates with my friends until the writing inspiration returns!<br /><br />All this makes aging sound so much better to me!&nbsp; And, if I ever get bored, Mark and I can pretend we're batty and have great fun hitting people with our canes, dressing each&nbsp;other up in funny mismatched outfits,&nbsp;and talking in wacky circles about ridiculous things, repeatedly.&nbsp; <br /><br />I know for sure that Mark, whether in his right mind or not, can be counted on to give regular reports on the daily antics of the local squirrel population!&nbsp; By way of a current example: most recently, he reported to me that he witnessed&nbsp;the bully&nbsp;squirrel from across the street run across the street, beat up&nbsp;a poor, unsuspecting squirrel in our yard, and then retreat back to his own yard!&nbsp; Only Mark would notice this -- and delight in it!<br /><br />We have also been known, during a long wait in the doctor's office waiting room, to catch imaginary butterflies out of the air and feed them to each other!&nbsp; I definitely think we could manage to keep ourselves entertained in the retirement home!<br /><br />I'd better start taking better care of myself because I have BIG plans for the retirement home and I want to be healthy enough to spend&nbsp;several fruitful and frolicking decades playing&nbsp;there!&nbsp; In the meantime, I must be very, very&nbsp;careful to stay out of the paths of buses!<br /><br />Mark and I have been practicing for our senior years!&nbsp;&nbsp;We have&nbsp;photographic evidence but I can't get the photos to upload at the moment so check back later to see them!<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/TTBq51iKR5I/AAAAAAAAAx4/UOu7eO21WKM/s1600/goofballs.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/TTBq51iKR5I/AAAAAAAAAx4/UOu7eO21WKM/s320/goofballs.bmp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/TTBq8V3MhQI/AAAAAAAAAx8/YmxnC2I78nU/s1600/Marknut.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/TTBq8V3MhQI/AAAAAAAAAx8/YmxnC2I78nU/s320/Marknut.bmp" width="240" /></a></div>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-74185355311237272632010-06-11T16:12:00.002-05:002010-06-11T16:27:34.201-05:00UpdateI just read my friend Vanessa's blog and found myself missing my blog SO MUCH! I'm on phone duty at work and there's no time for anything well thought-out but I just wanted to stop in and say hello! <br /><br />Life has been wall-to-wall 16 hour days for the last couple of weeks. I've calculated that I'll be able to come up for air on June 18th -- unless something else comes up! <br /><br />So, here's a brief summary of June so far: Sara-Grace turned 9 on the 9th and had a big day, we're preparing for her pool/cookout/slumber party which is tomorrow (the 12th), Matt was bitten by a baby water moccasin but it didn't occur to him to mention if for three days so I think he'll live, I've been emptying two houses and staging two more (half of which are in the next county so lots of driving and long hours away), I have two closings next week -- my first every buyer client and a town house I own myself, the sale of the town house will break the financial log jam we've been in for months (Praise God!), the girls FINALLY got out of school on Monday (June 7th) but I've scarcely laid eyes on them I've been so busy, I got to spend two weekends in Enid which I love, I had an open house last Sunday and another one this Sunday, I have an out-of-state buyer client coming in from South Dakota next week which has required lots of prep work, Mark and I are going to Fort Worth on the 24th for the RV auction on the 25th (maybe even ALONE!), and I'm living for the day (maybe June 19th?) when I can run away to Enid for a stretch and play summer in my little vintage house, start too many projects, write daily on this blog, and maybe even launch my Freesourcefull blog! Whew! <br /><br />People always ask what I'm doing for the summer. My answer for the last decade has always been "as little as possible". That gets harder and harder to accomplish! But I still want to try!<br /><br />Happy Summer and stay tuned!ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-1474431604995764572010-05-14T08:17:00.007-05:002010-06-01T09:44:47.005-05:00Closet Desires<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/TAUcdHPK-SI/AAAAAAAAAQk/CB3Brn9xfwY/s1600/May+2010+027.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477815808250542370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/TAUcdHPK-SI/AAAAAAAAAQk/CB3Brn9xfwY/s400/May+2010+027.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>It's silly how little things can be so big.<br /><br />I cleaned my closet. And now I am IN LOVE!<br /><br />Last Saturday held an event that I wait for all year every year. No, not Christmas. Not Mother's Day. Not my birthday. It was the Washington Elementary Home Tour! The annual fund raiser for my daughter's school has taken on monumental meaning in my life. (Scroll back in my blog and you'll find photos from last year's home tour -- don't miss the flying monkey!).<br /><br />This year, somehow, I became enamoured with closets. Maybe this was because there was only one house on the tour that I truly adored. Or it could be that, as a home tour volunteer for the first half of the day, I was stationed for a time in the "His" part of the his and hers closet/bath in a remodelled 1891 two-story. But don't feel too sorry for me -- this closet had bay windows, a marble shower and vanity, an antique desk, a handsome masculine armchair, and a flat screen tv! I marvelled at the tidiness. I counted the clothing (44 shirts, 8 suits, 3 pair of jeans, 12 pair of slacks, 22 tshirts). I pondered the livestyle. I soaked it all in.<br /><br />How do people live so meticulously? I have clothes strewn everywhere. I have laundry coming and going and stalled out. I have "outta here" boxes loitering in my tv room. I have outfit considerations hanging around my bedroom like ghosts. And these people have all their clothes lined up in their closets with space between the hangers and not one single lost or hooky-playing shirt anywhere. Granted, they did probably clean like mad for weeks in preparation for the masses of the home tour trampling through their home. Or not. But, regardless, they both inspired and shamed me into spending the bulk of a perfectly good Saturday evening digging in my closet like a prarie dog adding on a bonus room!<br /><br />Now my closet is CLEAN! And, oh, the wonder! I am in love. I gravitate to it. I stand in the door and soak it in whenever I pass. I revel in it as I dress. I made everyone in the house come up and admire and repeat scripted lines about the beauty of it. Mark seems to understand too -- yesterday he took me into the closet to show and tell me that he has so much respect for what I have done in there that he didn't dare fall short of maintaining it and that I should notice how there were no clothes overflowing the hamper and even his shoes were all lined up!<br /><br />The joy my closet now gives me is exponentially greater than the sum of it's parts and completely disproportionate to reality. My world could easily revolve around that small room tucked upstairs where my joy now resides.<br /><br />Skirts now hang at attention in their own shamelessly segregated section. Dresses are grouped by type with all four black dresses united in their own little cocktail party. Jeans do not carelessly mingle with slacks. The back corner holds a glorious profusion of formals including my green taffeta prom dress and the delicious chocolate brown satin dress that I wore to our wedding rehearsal dinner. In the corner of the top shelf is a stack of my grandmother's hat boxes. In a stack of matching plastic shoe boxes are, among others, the shoes I wore to my sister's wedding and the ones that I wore to my high school graduation. Belts have their own basket. As do scarves, socks, purses, and sweaters. Nine matching canvas bins hold sleepwear, lingerie, leggings, swimsuits, and sweatshirts. Tshirts and tank tops all have their assigned places. Luggage fits neatly on the top shelf. Shoes neatly line the rack on the back of the door.<br /><br />Oh! And the lighting. I replaced the pathetic single bulb "builder basic" light fixture with what I like to call an "antler" fixture. I has four heads that each spotlight their own assigned section of the closet. The room looks like a high-end clothing store due to this exceptional lighting! This is particularly wonderful after a recent spell of NO lighting in the closet due to a sudden, deadly lightbulb epidemic that swept through in the course of a few days leaving no survivors (replacements, being costly, did not materialize immediately)!<br /><br />A couple of years ago, my darling Tessa (then about 11) asked one day if she could organize my closet. Of course I said yes! She proceeded to color coortinate all my shirts! I loved it so much I have maintained the system and converted Mark's side of the closet as well. I've come to love knowing just where to focus when I wake up in a pink mood or a green phase!<br /><br />I now delight in hanging up stray shirts --neatly inserting them into their slot in their color section with an almost-audible, satisfying "CLICK". I diligently move empty hangers to the empty hanger section. I even got rid of a bunch of clothes so everything would fit better. Granted, there are still no spaces between my hangers, but at least all the hangers fit! And all the hangers are white plastic and MATCHING! Because wire hangers and mismatched colors are just too imperfect. You knew that, I'm sure.<br /><br />And now I wonder: why is it such a big deal to me?<br /><br />At the moment, I have three jobs. I drive children for three and a half hours a day to school and basketball and home -- more on days with appointments or other events. I put in 16+ hour days most of the time. My husband is away on business 85% of the time lately. I'm afraid of my bank account. My dogs still think my commands are mere suggestions. The cats have their own household government. I feel overwhelmed and helpless and stressed out of my mind and, oh, did I mention OVERWHELMED?<br /><br />And then there's my closet, my little island of serenity. Proof that I can master SOMETHING. Proof that order and peace DO still exist in the world are ARE potentially attainable.<br /><br />I can now walk around out in the world with the warm, sustaining knowledge that my closet, a thing of beauty and order and deep, deep meaning, awaits at home ready to reassure me that I am, indeed, a success at SOMETHING!</div>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-35694282915761515392010-03-14T14:26:00.003-05:002010-03-14T14:48:07.914-05:00Christine's House<span class="fullpost">Mark and I have a running debate. We often spar over whether or not selling houses is actually selling -- as in requiring sales skills. </span><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><span class="fullpost">Mark is a natural-born salesman. He could sell ice in the Arctic. I, on the other hand, want to go hide in the house at my own garage sales. I could fail miserably at selling ice in the desert. So, if selling houses really IS sales, I am getting into the wrong business!</span><br /><br />I say that you can't sell someone a house -- in terms of being the force that convinces the buyer to purchase. A house isn't an impulse buy. A house is our largest material necessity. No one is going to buy a house on impulse like they buy those shoes or those golf clubs that they end up smuggling into some hiding place in the closet.<br /><br />A person must find THEIR HOME. They must find the place they want to wake up in the morning and go to sleep in at night and be the backdrop for all the scense that go on in the middle. They must find the place that FEELS RIGHT. My job is just to come up with a list of possibilities and open the doors.<br /><br />Similarly, you can't go out and find a buyer for a house you're trying to sell. You can try to pull as many people as possible into the house to see it and make the house look as optimal as possible (hence my staging business). But, for the most part, you have to wait for the right person to walk into "their" house.<br /><br />This week I spent several days with my first buyers: an incoming History professor from Virginia, his wife, and one of their three young sons. They had three days to learn Fayetteville, choose their favorite area, and find a house they wanted.<br /><br />The first day was a whirwind! We looked at 12 or 14 houses in many different parts of town. They honed in on their preferred area and then we tried to find the most optimal house in that region.<br /><br />I'll never forget the look on Christine's face the first time we left the house they would end up choosing. She looked like she was in love! I never saw that look on her face in any other house. The love affair was clear enough that I even said to her, "It looks like you've found your house!" Her reply was: "Ssssshhhhh!"<br /><br />Over the next two days, I watched this couple weigh their options, wrangle over their differences, and wrestle with the financial practicalities of it all. I also watched them make the same decision at least four times over. Christine knew her house.<br /><br />I just openned the door!ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-91515401053229515192010-03-03T12:20:00.003-06:002010-03-03T12:34:01.625-06:00Never Mind...<span class="fullpost">I was going to write something sparkling and witty and brilliant for the blog this morning -- especially after being rather (ok, VERY) depressing lately with "As She Lay Dying" and all that.</span><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><span class="fullpost">But then I read Heather's blog post for today <a href="http://www.dooce.com/">www.dooce.com</a> and now I'm completely intimidated. She makes it look so easy. Maybe that's why she's #22 on the 2009 list of Best Blogs! That would make sense.</span><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><span class="fullpost">My writing is something I do for myself (I remind that same self). But it would be nice to be semi-decent at it (kinda like semi-sweet chocolate is really, massively spectacular despite the disclaimer-like use of the word "semi", you know?). </span><br /><br />Oh well. Yawn...<br /><p><span class="fullpost"> </p><br /><br /><br /></span>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-49796100339708572342010-03-01T11:48:00.002-06:002010-03-01T12:15:54.202-06:00The Anything and Everything Principle<span class="fullpost">File this under "Things I've Learned"!</span><br /><p><span class="fullpost">I have learned that, when I don't know what to do about a problem, the best solution is to do anything and everything I can think of -- simultaneously. This usually combines exercise with vitamins with Googling with seeking wisdom from others with prayer with brainstorming with whatever else I can think of. Basically, it's throwing the whole tool box at the problem!</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">The really neat thing it that it almost always works! You may never know what exactly it was that worked, but something DOES work! It may be one thing. It may be a combination of things. It may be the whole dynamic or just taking an attitude of action. But something usually works! And I love the comfort of knowing that something WILL work. To go from a place of despair to a place of confidence and hope is a wonderful thing! There's something about pulling yourself out of the mire and crawling up onto a rock like a frog out of a swamp that grows our legs and frees us to jump! </span></p><p>My favorite example of how this method worked for me came in response to a medical diagnosis: hypothyroidism. Me? HYPOthroid? It didn't feel like MY body they were talking about. It just felt WRONG. I had the lab re-run the test. Same result. </p><p>The doctor wanted to put me on synthetic thyroid hormones FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE! I balked at the very thought. </p><p>I begged the doctor for time and took to my computer. In the course of researching the thyroid, I happened onto a little phrase that said that the thyroid gland is a calcium receptor. Hmmm... </p><p>When I thought about it, I realize that I was drinking a LOT of calcium fortified orange juice every day and some milk on top of that. I calculated that I was getting 4-5 times the recommended daily allowance of calcuim. What if I'm overloading my thyroid with too much calcium, I wondered. I switched to regular OJ and focused my mind on the number I wanted to see on my next thyroid test. </p><p>A month later the test came back at the exact number I had envisioned! Problem solved! </p><p>A few years later my thyroid levels were off again. I realized that I was drinking LOTS of milk. I cut back on the milk and my thyroid levels went right back to normal again! Like magic!</p><p> </p><p>If you have used the "anything and everything" method or do so in the future, let me know how it went/goes. I want to hear stories!</p><p><span class="fullpost"> </p><br /><br /></span>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-4448013329808331512010-02-28T20:07:00.004-06:002010-03-01T11:47:57.299-06:00Perspective<span class="fullpost">(Warning: This post relates heavily to previous posts so, if it makes no sense to you, that's why! Sorry it's not a literary masterpiece but I'm just where I am today!)</span><br /><br /><br />Another important lesson <span class="fullpost">I learned from my mother's death is this: if no one is actually, physically, immediately DEAD or DYING, how bad can it really be?</span><br /><br />I spent today estranged from the whole fairy dust principle. I cried my way through church and then wrestled all afternoon with hopelessness and some pretty staunch bitterness at God (among others) about circumstances in my present situation.<br /><br />I finished my open house, went home, and took to my bed. Turns out God had a correspondence course waiting for me on TV. I don't really know how it happened, but I found myself watching a show about two young college women who were involved in an horrific car wreck. One died. The other suffered a brain injury and significant facial swelling. Their identities were switched at the scene of the accident and their families mourned/nursed the wrong person for over a month.<br /><br />Who can watch such a thing without trying to imagine how all the parties involved might feel and what it would be like to get a second chance like that? In the course of this mental process of empathy, I was walked, step-by-step to the conclusion I've come to before, to the lesson I've learned before but that is easy to forget:<br /><br /><span class="fullpost">Really now -- no one is dying here!</span><br /><br /><br />Next up: the "anything and everything" principle<br /><br /><p><span class="fullpost"></span> </p><br /><p><span class="fullpost"></p><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-1045952040542586652010-02-24T18:29:00.014-06:002010-02-25T06:27:26.712-06:00As She Lay Dying<span class="fullpost">The summer I was 23 my mother was busy dying. It's an intricate thing, this prolonged method of dying. The demon in our midst was cancer. Cancer of liver or pancreatic origin. No one ever decided for sure. It didn't matter anyway because it was far-flung and out of control by the time they found it. </span><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><span class="fullpost">To harbor hope or to dissolve into despair? To live or to die? To make a big deal out of every moment or just live in an ordinary day? Those were the existenialities we wrestled with that summer. Every moment, waking or sleeping, was steeped in a surreal kind of terror. We walked a tightrope o</span><span class="fullpost">f agony. </span><br /><br />But you soon learn the necessity of just going on with the ordinary. To try to infuse every pregnant moment with importance and meaning is just plain exhausting. Mother wasn't into resolving issues, reconciling relationships, or making moments. She was just trying not to throw up and wishing that something would make the pain subside. It was hell and none of us wanted to live in our hell. We all just wanted to find a way to pass through it.<br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><span class="fullpost">But we, the onlookers, the family, suffered only emotional agony. Mother's emotional agony was compounded by her impending doom and by the cruelty of her physcial agony.</span><br /><br />It had started with digestive problems over the course of a year and a half or so. She knew something was very wrong but could get no diagnosis. Then one day she awoke with a circle of burning skin on the side of her ribcage. It burned like fire, felt like sunburn only worse, she told me. Turns out it was a spot of wayward cancer trying to eat itself out from the inside.<br /><br />There were other spots too: on her lung, on her liver, in her spine. Silly little "spots". They sound so innoncent. But they aren't. They mean there's very little hope to be had. They mean the cancer has taken over. But you fight it anyway. Even Mother, who always swore (in theory) that she would never do chemotherapy, did chemotherapy.<br /><br />The first day of chemo felt strangely exciting -- like the first day of kindergarten or something. I guess it allowed us to feel like there was something we could do. We could march into the hospital all smiles and joviality and fight back. It was the most active attack we could launch.<br /><br />They weighed her (114 that would drop to maybe 80 by the end) and took her blood pressure (having blood pressure meant that some things were still in working order, right?). And then they sat her in a high-backed turquoise vinyl recliner across from a soap opera on tv and started filling out forms.<br /><br />She had to sign papers to promise not to sue the hospital if they spilled any of the chemotherapy drugs on her skin. They would burn her skin on contact. And they were cheerfully about to pump this poison into my mother's frail body. That's when the bottom fell out for me.<br /><br />I wanted to run away. I wanted to call in the adults to handle this. Oh wait -- we were the only adults there were. Twenty-three counts as adult. But twenty-three is still WAY to young to have to think about pumping poison in to your beloved mother to try to kill the evil thing inside her that is even stronger than burn-on-contact poison.<br /><br />She threw up for a week. Sleep. Throw-up. Sleep. Throw-up. The cycle just repeated itself. Day and night. Every day we hoped it would be over. Every day it just continued. I had to shut off the empathy function of my brain. I couldn't bear to think how she must feel.<br /><p>It was early afternoon on Thursday when I took the grocery list and drove 25 minutes into town to the store. The small-town Oklahoma grocery store was dim and dank. Focusing on the products lined neatly on the shelves was difficult. I had to push aside the shroud of despair that enveloped me and fight back tears at times to concentrate on the task. Peaches. Cottage cheese.Monterrey Jack cheese. Brisket. Most of the food wasn't for mother. It was for the rest of us -- those who had to keep up our strength to take care of her. Those of us who got to be normal but felt crushing guilt for being so. Pudding cups (for mother). Pedialyte (to try to keep her hydrated). Toilet paper. For normality. Even though I couldn't have felt more detached from normality, swirling as I was in a surreal place where life and death clash,while walking among people who were existing in the presence of life, blissfully detached from of death, consumed by their trivial day-to-day concerns.</p><p>About halfway though the store I came to the end of an aisle. Parked at the end of the aisle, two women in their late 20's stood talking over their carts. </p><p>"MY mother is driving me crazy!" one of them bitched to the other. "She blah blah blah." </p><p>"Oh, MINE is worse!" the other countered, "She blah blah blah.</p><p>They laughed and shook their heads at the burden of the mothers involved in their lives, healthy enough to be irritating.</p><p>I made a wide circle around them, annoyed, gave them an bit of an evil eye, listened to their continued complaining about the women who had give birth to and raised them as I worked my way down the next aisle, forming a speech to them in my head. It began with, "MY mother is at home in bed on chemo" and ended with "You ought to appreciate that your mother is alive!" In between was the crazed rant that kept me from saying anything to them. I didn't want to shame them and I didn't want to unload my heavy baggage on their blessed, ordinary day.</p><p>In rhetrospect, I should have said something to them. My words, my situation, the message I had for them was important. I did them a disservice by not delivering the lesson. In the two decades since, I have tried to make up for my omission by telling this story anytime it was applicable. I hope it's proven important to some. It's a lesson you can never truly absorb until you've lived it. But I hope today I can give someone a new appreciation.</p><p>My mother died on October 15, 1989. Five months after her diagnosis. Two years after her symptoms began. She was 48 years old.</p><p>I still miss my mother desperately. Even the passage of twenty years has not dulled the cruel agony of that time or the depth of the loss. My daughters never got to meet the grandmother who had SO looked forward to having grandchildren, who saved a big basket of building blocks from my childhood for them, who had env<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SuYz4oWnn2I/AAAAAAAAAOs/rZK0qfqrX1A/s1600-h/Oct.+2009+116.JPG"></a>isioned summers full of grandkids at her house on the lake. We all lost SO much.</p><p>Now, go call your mother if you can! Or make your kids read this! </p><p><span class="fullpost">To see a photo of my mother, Carol Baker Cromwell, scroll down to the end of the previous post "Mortality in a Box"</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">Footnote: Today, February 25th would have been Mother's 69th birthday. Happy Birthday Mother!</p></span>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-39608511684227326832010-02-21T23:55:00.007-06:002010-02-22T22:36:20.145-06:00Socks and Dust Bunnies vs. Alpha Cat<span class="fullpost">If you read my previous post "Fairy Dust" then you know that snow sprinkled and sparkled onto my car. And that God has given me His divine blessing. </span><span class="fullpost">Now my socks have confirmed it! </span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">You know all those missing socks that we accuse the poor, innocent dryer of eating? Sure you do! (Especially you, my dear cousin who reads my blog -- you seem particularly obsessed with it!) </span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><span class="fullpost">I was REALLY starting to wonder if the secret sock society hated me because I have a whole basket full of single socks. A big basket, I might add. Most sane people would have thrown them all out and bought more by now but it was the principle of the thing for me (and perhaps I'm not a sane person anyway!). I knew that all those socks were in this house SOMEWHERE! And I was going to find them (ok, wait for them to turn up eventually -- but it's idealogically the same process)!</span><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><span class="fullpost">TODAY I FOUND THE MISSING SOCKS! TWICE, actually! </span><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><span class="fullpost">I spent most of the day cleaning (read: unearthing) Sara-Grace's room. Under her chair I found a dozen socks! I recognized them as the runaways because I have futilely tried to match up their lonely mates many times and had thus developed an uneasy familiarity with them. I think the missing faction had formed an alliance with the dust bunnies there under the chair and I suspect they were plotting to overthrow the Alpha cat in the house and launch a hostile takeover of the game cabinet -- just for something to do.</span><br /><p>And then, as if finding one batch of missing socks weren't joy enough, I came across ANOTHER batch! Twenty or so socks were camped out in the bottom of a basket of laundry that an eight-year-old (who shall remain nameless) had never put away. Why she had my socks in her basket I can't say, but who cares? Now I can wear a DIFFERENT pair of socks EVERY day! Oh JOY!</p><p>So, as you can see. Great, miraculous things are beginning to happen to me. I have God and the socks on my side (and maybe the dust bunnies too -- no, I swept them all up. Too bad!)</p><p><span class="fullpost">To find your own missing socks, go to the most cluttered, neglected, procrastinated spot in your house. If you listen carefully, you can probably hear them laughing at you and giggling like a bunch of six-year-olds playing hide-and-seek! Good luck!</span><br /></p><p><span class="fullpost">And now I must go conquer the world!</p></span>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-65111213190889442012010-02-21T09:49:00.013-06:002010-02-21T21:31:54.909-06:00Delicacies for Monsters<span class="fullpost"></span><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><span class="fullpost">This is one of my favorite stories! This is how I traumatize my children!</span><br /><br />One night, a year or so ago, Sara-Grace (then 7) appeared, sheepish and wide-eyed at the side of my bed, spooked (probably from watching "A Haunting" on TV with one of her sisters!) and insisting on sleeping with the big people.<br /><br />Clearly, blessed sleep would be a long way off if I tried to force her to sleep alone in her obviously haunted, possessed, erie, and just plain EVIL bedroom (cute and pink-laden though it was). So, without even openning my eyes, I relented. "Get in", I said, pulling back the covers beside me.<br /><br />Little heels dug into the wooden floor beside the bed. That wouldn't do. She wanted to sleep BETWEEN us (because grown-ups make very excellent protective barriers, you know).<br /><br />But Mark is warm and all, well, you-know, Mark-like, so I told her she had to sleep on the outside. At this, her fear-widened little eyes just got wider and her hands clenched tighter around the stuffed dolphin she carried with her for protection.<br />On one side of the bed was the big scary window and on the other was the big scary door to the bathroom. Her little head ping-ponged back and forth between the greater evils, looking for a lesser one.<br /><br />"WHY do I have to sleep on the outside?", she queried. This was followed by WAY too many logical reasonings about marital rights, parental omniscience, the duties of children from her over-explaining mother.<br /><br />Undaunted and un-swayed, Sara-Grace repeated, "WHY do I have to sleep on the outside?"<br /><br />I was fresh out of logic on the subject at this point but I guess the usually-elusive "funny switch" in my brain was still awakeand tripped, because, already tickled by my comic genius, I blurted out, in a burst of great humor and unconscionable parental insensitivity, "BECAUSE WE WANT THE MONSTER TO EAT YOU FIRST!"<br /><br />Mark (who had been watching quietly to see if I would protect the sanctity of our marital spoon) and I dissolved into uncontrolable laughter. Sara-Grace, on the other hand, to this day does not think this was the least bit funny (though I suspect that mature perspective and family lore will combine to bring about the use of this line on her own poor, defenseless children someday).<br /><br />By the way, she settled for sleeping on the window side (because a window offers slightly less accsessiblity to monsters than an easily-openable door, you know).<br /><br />Sara-Grace's "Scary" Room!<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/S4FtP-53xjI/AAAAAAAAAQc/BvZsuP5F_e4/s1600-h/Don%27t+Know+Yet+213.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440749946191463986" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/S4FtP-53xjI/AAAAAAAAAQc/BvZsuP5F_e4/s400/Don%27t+Know+Yet+213.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/S4FtPu7ydUI/AAAAAAAAAQU/i9El_FfqwBQ/s1600-h/Don%27t+Know+Yet+210.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440749941904536898" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/S4FtPu7ydUI/AAAAAAAAAQU/i9El_FfqwBQ/s400/Don%27t+Know+Yet+210.JPG" border="0" /></a>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-7026676324102105632010-02-19T18:41:00.019-06:002010-02-20T22:08:25.213-06:00Brown<span class="fullpost">I have a curious relationship with the color brown. For years -- ok DECADES -- I HATED it. </span><br /><p><span class="fullpost">To me, brown was the color of dog poop and the naugahyde on a Lazy-Boy and ugly panelling and DIRT. Brown is the color you get when you get carried away and mix too many other, colorful colors together -- the color of the water you rinse your brush in while painting rainbows and butterflies. It is the color of mud. And old stations wagons. We had a brown station wagon when I was a kid. With fake wood panels on the sides. Actually, we had TWO of them!</span><br /></p><br /><p><span class="fullpost">My aversion to brown was so ingrained that my husband (Matt, the first one) always joked that he was going to buy me a brown dually truck (also something I detest) -- with brown interior, of course.</span><br /></p><br /><p><span class="fullpost">I'm completely oblivious to when the courtship started. Insidious little gestures in unexpected places, I suppose. I'm not sure what year it was that deep dark brown was voted "the color of the year" but I remember being aghast about it. But then I saw it used, and used well, here and there. In catalogs. In decorating magazines. In retail decor and products.</span><br /></p><br /><p><span class="fullpost">There's something delicious and alluring about shades called "chocolate" and "expresso" and "sable". Maybe it's all in the presentation. There's a lot of persuasion in nuance and association. If they came up with a name that made the color of dog poop attractive, what might we be won over by next?</span><br /></p><br /><p><span class="fullpost">Those luxurious shades of brown... they lured me. They charmed and romanced me. Their bold drama. Their sophistication. Their deliciousness. </span><br /></p><br /><p><span class="fullpost">Maybe I just finally climbed onto the bandwagon. I'm like that. I'm usually the last one to come around to a trend. But come around I did. In a big way. When I finally hoist myself onto the bandwagon, I can suddenly see very plainly that everyone else was right. </span><br /> <p>If you had told me anytime in the 40 years before 2006 that my wedding colors would be pink and white AND BROWN I would probably have fainted dead away. But, indeed, brown was the dominant color at my 2008 wedding. Pink and white were just the accent colors. And all that brown was GORGEOUS, if I do say so myself! (Pictured are my girls and I getting ready to walk down the aisle.)</p><br /></p><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/S4CDACPIj6I/AAAAAAAAAPc/GHOLTsJY8sM/s1600-h/12196_089.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440492386487144354" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 268px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/S4CDACPIj6I/AAAAAAAAAPc/GHOLTsJY8sM/s400/12196_089.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p><span class="fullpost">And I painted my master bathroom an exquisite shade called "chocolate truffle". And there are photos to prove it! Every time I walk into that bathroom I LOVE it. The sparkle still hasn't worn off. I've had to restrain myself from painting the rest of the walls in the house brown as well. I painted our master sunporch bedroom in our little house in Enid "chocolate truffle" too. One room per house -- that's what I'm allowing myself.</span><br /></p><br /><p>When I think back, I remember that my mother hired a decorator once, long ago, to re-do our dining room and the adjacent tv room. The walls were deep, chocolate brown with white trim and white wainscotting. The furniture and curtains were in shades of creme and tan and the accent fabric was a plaid of black, brown, tan, and creme. It was gorgeous. I was very proud to have it be seen by my friends when I brought them home with me from school. I would have the exact same decor today if given the option -- and that was 1977! What else in 1977, stylewise, would I gladly embrace today? Not much!</p><br /><p><span class="fullpost">Now I have to be very careful not to have the all-brown wardrobe. I could wear brown every day. It's the new neutral. It even matches my hair. And I LOVE it. Recently I bought three new tops at my favorite thrift store (for $3 each, I might add). Two of them were brown. One was a designer that I totally covet -- a long-sleeved, brown velvet, v-neck, button-down shirt by Eileen Fisher. For THREE DOLLARS! It probably would have sold new for about $129.00. The other was also orignally expensive -- Banana Republic. I made myself buy a gorgeous green cableknit cardigan too -- just for a little variety in my closest.</span><br /></p><br /><p><span class="fullpost">So I'm a complete (yes, COMPLETE!) convert to brown. A traitor to my previous staunch position. What really worries me though, is that, lately, I have REALLY come to hate burgundy. Will burgundy come to be my new favorite? Will it overtake my closet? Will I drive a burgundy car? Or maybe even a burgundy DUALLY TRUCK!<br /></p></span><span class="fullpost"><br />P.S. I just read this to Emily (who, by the way, is wearing a burgundy Hollister t-shirt at this very moment). She says that burgundy -- and another of my least favorite colors, navy blue -- are THE new colors! I should have known. I already drive a navy blue car. I guess I'm on my way! Maybe this time I won't be the last one on the bandwagon!<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/S3_3teQR_eI/AAAAAAAAAPM/SkXJlTZ3yK8/s1600-h/May+9,+2009+007.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440339235474374114" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/S3_3teQR_eI/AAAAAAAAAPM/SkXJlTZ3yK8/s400/May+9,+2009+007.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/S3_26xNex4I/AAAAAAAAAO8/yWxjbyVKQE4/s1600-h/Master+Bathroom+004.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440338364389574530" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/S3_26xNex4I/AAAAAAAAAO8/yWxjbyVKQE4/s400/Master+Bathroom+004.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div></span>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-33824711323346711252010-02-18T20:22:00.014-06:002010-02-19T13:47:55.987-06:00Fairy Dust<span class="fullpost">Launching a career in real estate in the midst of our present economic condition (won't I be glad to </span><span class="fullpost">retire THAT overused phrase as soon as possible?) may not be the most optimal timing possible. Skip the champagne and the big send-off and just get the ship in the water, captain! Ya know?</span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">A few friends have been more concerned than supportive. One, in particular, basically told me (in so many words) that I'm just plain stupid -- TWICE! I'm pretty sure my dad has decided there's no hope for me and what he sees as my constant stream of "unwise" decisions!</span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">But I've done enough soul searching to know I'm where I'm supposed to be, doing what I'm supposed to be doing. Houses are just "my thing"! Besides, it's intriguing, sanctioned, voyeuristic trespassing! Too fun! And it doesn't even clutter up the house like my beloved decorating magazines do!</span><br /><br /><p><span class="fullpost">I've been reading quite a bit lately -- hyping myself up on lots of personal success and real estate strategy books. Trying to keep the right attitude. Trying to do it all "right". Trying to be as successful at real estate as are my idols and mentors who have demonstrated for me that it can be done -- even now, in this recession.</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">Wrapped in a swarm of enthusiastic thoughts, I drove home from work one day last week, sort of communing with and talking along the way to God (such a tiny word for such a HUGE, awesome, ungraspable concept, isn't it?).</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">"Ok God, like I really need this to go well. I'm doing everything I can think of to bring about my own success but a little divine guidance or a Godly tip or two would go a long way." That sort of thing. I guess I'm a little confrontational and not too terribly reverent with God. But that's just me. I've concluded that He probably understands that (cuz I am the way he made me, right?).</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">This long miserable winter has been a very overdone production, in my opinion. Snow that loiters for days on end is a rare occurance around here. But the white(turning to gray and black!) stuff has persistently lingered -- like the smell of ripe sneakers! And then every few days (and sometimes several times a day) the flakes start to swirl down again -- just for extra seasoning I suppose! I've even forgotten what that big fireball in the sky is called. But I do believe that, even as we suffer and shiver, God is up to something, conjuring up blessings for us. "All things work together for good..." and all that variety of unfathomable grace!</span><br /><span class="fullpost"></span></p><p><span class="fullpost">On this particular day, that yellow thing up above had made a brief appearance and there was even blue stuff up there with it! As I drove along in the winter-drab landscape, communing with the Higher Power on the subject of real estate success, I flung out to the universe something of a challenge. "Ok... so what's the magic formula that can make this all work?"</span><br /><span class="fullpost"></span></p><p><span class="fullpost">The instant the thought germinated in my mind, faster than an answer could have been spoken, a cloud of sparkling, shimmering, "fairy dust" the size of a small swarm of bees flittered down onto my windshield. Woosh! God's glitter! I froze, looked around, and waited hopefully to see if anything else would happen. Nothing did, but the fairy dust had been enough.</span><br /><span class="fullpost"></span></p><p><span class="fullpost">I know that a gust of wind came along and blew the snow off a tree branch and it settled down toward my car with sunshine illuminating the sparkle factor, but the timing was too perfect NOT to just KNOW that it was an answer to my thought. I believe that, while capable of dramatic miracles, God tends to work quietly within the systems He created most of the time. Why wouldn't he use snow and wind and sunlight to encourage us?</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">Simply, subtly, I had been granted the magic I requested -- by God, by the trees, by the snow and the wind and the sunshine. I was shown, in a magical moment words really can't capture, that benevolent cosmic forces want good for me. I was granted confirmation that my "foolish" path is really the RIGHT path. God endorsed me. I know it. </span></p><p><span class="fullpost">Now, all you naysayers, GET OUT OF MY WAY! YOU JUST WATCH ME!</span><span class="fullpost"></p></span>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-44524744138178456412010-02-17T23:01:00.002-06:002010-02-17T23:19:00.541-06:00Formatting<span class="fullpost">Just in case you were wondering why I'm REALLY lousy at formatting, I want you to know that Blogger has REALLY weird formatting defaults. I have re-spaced and indented every paragraph in "Making Ends Meat" several times to no avail. Funny, it used to ADD spaces. Now it subtracts them. ARGH!<br /><br /></span>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-28659031098563412492010-02-17T12:55:00.015-06:002010-02-18T00:18:39.605-06:00Making Ends Meat<span class="fullpost"><div>I spent much of my childhood with an awareness that there was a dish that I had never tasted. Like paella and ratatouille, my family never made this recipe. But then, there were lots of dishes I'd heard of that we never ate, so this type of dietary omission wasn't unusual.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Now and then and here and there I would hear people say they "couldn't make ends meat". I always wondered exactly what "ends meat" was. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>To my best estimation, it sounded like some type of meat loaf to me. Or maybe it had something to do with rump roast (that's just a horrible term, isn't it)? Or was it what one did with the end of the meat, the dregs -- I pictured the last of the ground beef clinging to the sausage grinder.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>I wondered what could be in "ends meat" that was so costly or difficult to make that people couldn't make it and why they valued it so much that they pouted and complained, world-weary, at the deprivation. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>I remembered a few of my mother's specialty dishes -- cheese gritz souffle, homemade baked macaroni and cheese, and "Thelma's" (we've long since lost track of who Thelma was!) special oatmeal chocolate chip cookies -- that were only made on rare occasions due to labor-intensity.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Then one day (probably well into my 30's!) it dawned on me... "ends MEET"! Oh. </div><div></div><div></div><div>An image of a large, intertwined segment of thick, heavy rope with it's cut ends touching came to mind. I get it!</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Aren't "kid-isms" cute (even in one's 30's!)? Around here we still say "girl cheese sandwich" (grilled cheese sandwich) (unless there are boys around!), "robin noodles" (raman noodles), and "strawbabies" (strawberries). We like these so much that we have chosen them over the correct term! </div><div><br /></div><div>In an effort to save face, I have decided to call my turkey meat loaf recipe "Ends Meat" from now on. Here's the recipe:</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Ends Meat<br /></strong></div><br /><div>2 lbs. ground turkey (best, for texture purposes, if it comes frozen in a tube rather than fresh in a tray)<br />1 small zuchini</div><div>1-3 carrots<br />3/4 cup frozen (thawed) spinach (be sure to remove as much liquid as possible before adding)</div><div>4-8 mushrooms</div><div>1/4-1/2 onion</div><div>1/4 cup sour cream</div><div>1-2 eggs</div>1/4 cup ketchup<br /><div>1/4 cup cheddar cheese</div><div>bread crumbs (completely optional)</div><div>garlic to taste</div><div>salt and pepper to taste</div><div>season to taste with oregano, basil, tarragon, or Italian seasoning or a combination (about 1 teaspoon total)</div><br /><div></div><div>top with:</div><div>ketchup</div><div>grated cheddar cheese</div><br /><div></div><div>Grate zuchini, carrots, onion, mushrooms, and cheese. Dump all ingredients into a big bowl and smoosh it up with your hands until mixed. Move to a loaf pan (or two -- usually two). Top with ketchup and cheddar cheese. Bake at 375 for about an hour. Be sure to take it out every 20 minutes or so and pour off the excess liquid (created by the vegetables). </div><div></div><div></div><div>This is a good way to use up random vegetables that are languishing in the veggie drawer. You can alter the quantities and types of the veggies as needed. </div><div></div><div></div><div>I created this recipe to smuggle vegetables into little veggie-haters, so it's a wonderful way to hide veggies so the kids don't know they're eating them (I always explain any perceived spinach as "parsley" or "spices"). No one knows they just ate four vegetables (or five, if onions count as a vegetable)! </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Enjoy!</div><br /><div></div></span>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-30490454220885298322009-10-26T17:10:00.004-05:002009-10-26T19:32:43.159-05:00Mortality in a Box<div><span class="fullpost">Yikes! I hadn't realized it's been THREE MONTHS since I last posted! My apologies! I'll spare you the excuses. Suffice it to say: I'm in a good place when I'm writing. And I'm not when I'm not. Bear with me!</span><br /><br /><br /><br />*************************************************************************************<br /><br /><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">I was not an ordinary kid. I was always a grown-up in a kid's body. Later I got a grown-up body and reduced the dissonance a bit. I have always been very serious. During my early years I worried about things that should be excluded by the stereotypic ideal of a "carefree childhood". </span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">I had that startling moment of realization of my own mortality at the age of ten! This has always seemed cruelly early to me -- especially in light of some people I know who didn't have that dark, existential experience until they were in their 40's!</span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">I remember the day. Double sets of bunk beds in "the bunk room" at our lake house. Barbequed chicken on the patio for dinner. With corn on the cob. And Dr. Pepper in a can. The hum of motorboats in the distance. A happy, light-hearted setting. Yet somehow, around twilight, I wandered into the bunkroom where one thought led to another and then another and another and then my mind conjured up the thought: "SOMEDAY I'M GOING TO DIE!" The entire atmosphere of the earth seemed to reverberate with the shock of this thought. Me. Anne. This body. This mind. This life. Will one day DIE! And be no more. And then what? Darkness? Oblivion? A heaven that I could not imagine? My delicate ego could not grasp the end of ME. A tsunami of panic swept through my body. My vision shut down to a tunnel for a minute. Darkness closed in on me. </span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">Somehow I got ahold of myself and managed to go on with existence among the living. But I think I've wrestled with my fear of mortality ever since in the form of anxiety, depression, spirituality, related studies, and a fascination with the paranormal that, if I had been informed of it as a kid, would have had my youngster self hiding under the bed for the rest of my childhood! </span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">Maybe I needed the early preparation. My mother died when I was 23. She was just 48. Not fair. Cruel. Very, VERY cruel, in fact! </span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">I've buried many, many loved ones since. Sometimes I feel like Matt and I spent most of our 15 years together burying people. My house is full of relics of those I love who have gone on.</span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">Two weeks ago Mark and I buried his father. I actually enjoyed the time I got to hang out with his body at the funeral home. I added roses to the floral sprays and just relished the last of my time with his physical presence. Not scary anymore. But still profoundly confusing.</span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost">When I think back on that summer evening at the lake when I was 10 and realized my own mortality, an image comes to mind. On the dresser in that bedroom was a box that was my beloved grandmother's. The size, a circumference adult hands could encircle. Gold laquer. Half base, half lid. Just a trinket from my grandparents exotic travels, I'm sure. A black Scotch tape scar across the top where the lid was taped down as it was transported from one place to another. </span></div><br /><br /><div><span class="fullpost"></span></div><br /><br /><div><span class="fullpost">I don't know why I remember that it was in that room. I don't know why the box was in the room in the first place or why my grandmother had put it there when there was little else of her personal effects in this house that had been furnished by the previous owners. I don't know why that box has became associated with the realization of mortality for me. I do know one thing though: there's God in it all. Because, inside that gold laquered box, if you lift the lid, is the painted inky blackness of its interior (another symbolic reference to oblivion somehow?) and, painted on the bottom of the box, hidden away, deep in this symbol of mortality, is a BUTTERFLY! Of all things! A butterfly! That glorious creature that transcends lowly life on earth by sinking into the virtual death of cocooned dormancy only to emerge anew, transformed, and with the gift of flight! </span></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><span class="fullpost">I don't know about you, but, for me, that's God telling a terrified little girl that there are glorious wonders beyond this life that we won't know until we open the box or until we emerge from apparent death into the other side! It just took me until I was 35 to realized the message contained in my grandmother's box. The comfort, the promise, had been there all along!</span><br /><br /><br /><br />I keep the butterfly box on a shelf in my library. Next to a black and white photo of my mother. Near all my books on sprituality, reincarnation, near-death experiences, ghosts, and various religions. It clearly belongs in the company of these tomes that help me wrestle with my mortality ponderings. Beside a ceramic box shaped like a miniature vintage telephone (for communicating with the beyond, perhaps?). And next to it is an oval box, made of brass. When my birthgrandmother died many years ago, my birthmother chose that box for me from her mother's belongings. She wanted me to have something of Granny's. It is the only thing I have that was hers (I didn't get to know her very well). Inside of it I keep the only gift she ever gave me -- a string of blue and white china beads that she sent me for my college graduation (I was deeply touched by the gift at the time). And on the lid of the box, affixed to yet another shiny, circular, gold-toned box belonging to one of my dear grandmothers, is a silver BUTTERFLY! It seems that God is in cahoots with my grandmothers (and my mother!) to give me comfort and promises of something wonderful beyond!<span class="fullpost"> </span></div><br /><br /><p><span class="fullpost">Peace and blessings to you all!</p></span><br /><br /><span class="fullpost"><div><br /></span></div><div><span class="fullpost"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></span><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SuYz4oWnn2I/AAAAAAAAAOs/rZK0qfqrX1A/s1600-h/Oct.+2009+116.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397058251448098658" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SuYz4oWnn2I/AAAAAAAAAOs/rZK0qfqrX1A/s400/Oct.+2009+116.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SuYz4yCbsZI/AAAAAAAAAO0/QOih3Z0nyMc/s1600-h/Oct.+2009+113.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397058254047785362" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SuYz4yCbsZI/AAAAAAAAAO0/QOih3Z0nyMc/s400/Oct.+2009+113.JPG" border="0" /></a></div>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-18220337488536707872009-07-21T09:39:00.004-05:002010-02-19T11:45:29.551-06:00Feline Hospitiality<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SmXX3w4aGKI/AAAAAAAAAOE/Qw_kZ5LsePg/s1600-h/Stormy+010.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360928284468713634" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SmXX3w4aGKI/AAAAAAAAAOE/Qw_kZ5LsePg/s400/Stormy+010.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span class="fullpost">Tessa's cat, Stormy, has an appetite for bugs. He always seems to have in his mouth some buzzing insect that had the poor judgement to happen through our yard. Tessa, ever the diligent kitty-mama, keeps telling him, "Stormy, it's NOT polite to eat your guests!" But he stubbornly maintains his entemological menu. Tessa says this is why he can't have parties! </span></div><span class="fullpost"></span><br /><p><span class="fullpost"></span></p><p><span class="fullpost">At right: As I wrote this, Stormy was having a small june bug as a light snack!</p></span>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-68156288331933413252009-07-21T06:00:00.001-05:002009-07-21T06:54:59.078-05:00Crocheted Toilet Paper Covers<span class="fullpost">My ex-husband is getting re-married soon. I'm happy for him. I wish him every happiness. Part of why I divorced him was that I wanted a happiness for him that I couldn't give him. He's a good guy. He deserves happiness. We all do.</span><br /><p><span class="fullpost">My oldest daughter, Emily, who is 15 and all full of vim and vinegar, lives with her father. He's got a longer fuse and a stronger hand with her. That and the fact is that she hates me.</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">What didn't occur to me when I first heard of Matt's marriage plans was that, when Matt moves in with "Betty", Emily would be moving there too! My child will be living in another woman's house.</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">And then it started to really freak me out: My baby will be living in a house I can't even picture. I don't know where it is. I couldn't get there in an emergency. I won't know where she sleeps, what her room looks like, what her experience is, what her LIFE is like.</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">And then the spiral deepened: what if SHE ("Betty") has a crocheted toilet paper cover? Gasp! You know the kind, don't you, a lacy, hand-made-by-an-old-lady, multi-sherbet colored, "hat" for the spare roll of toilet paper, the height of silly and tacky to my mind. This imaginary yarn confection became the metaphor for my fears.</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">Visions of episodes of the TV show "Roseanne" swam through my head. Upholstered furniture on front porches. Cars parked in the front yard. Car parts strewn around. Ashtrays full of "coffin nails". Bar brawl scars and stories. A pantry full of giant, economy-sized cans of "WhoopAss"!...</span></p><p>Ok, wait a minute! </p><p>The crocheted toilet paper cover that I envision when I think of them belonged to Matt's aunt Honey (short for Henrietta, in case you were wondering). I loved Honey. She stood in for her departed sister as my daughters' doting grandmother. When the girls were little and went through that stage where they want to talk on the phone all the time but couldn't really quite talk yet and defiinitely couldn't carry on an interesting conversation, Honey would take their calls (long distance) and listen to them for hours -- always with a smile on her face and a sweet word on her lips, like she was in on the greatest thing ever. And Honey's crocheted toilet paper cover was made by another family member whom I also love. And she made it as an act of love and as a gift for our sweet Honey.</p><p><span class="fullpost">And I loved "Roseanne". That show was all about showing the humanity and the best qualities of the people whose economic challenges put them in the midst of the tackiness the comes of necessity. It was a lesson in not judging a book by its cover and not being a snob. My children could learn some valuable lessons in that house.</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">At the moment there's an armchair on my front porch. It's not a permanent fixture, mind you -- it's there to protect if from the elements for a few days in transition from one staging project to the next -- but it IS there now. So I guess I qualify.</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">There's not a car parked in my front yard but there is a car parked in my side yard. My 1989 Honda Prelude with the 4-wheel steering and the sun/moon roof was a 40th birthday present from Matt -- replacing my 1988 Prelude that my mother had bought new and that I drove during my graduate school days when I lived in Laguna Beach, California. It was my favorite car off all time. It was SO much fun to drive (and I spent 3 hours a day commuting back then). And then Matt totalled it (it wasn't his fault). So he surprised me with a new one when I turned 40. And I was able to say "I'm 40 and I have the mid-life-crisis sports car to prove it!" </span></p><p><span class="fullpost">There are some Prelude rotors and a starter and some something-brackets on the bench under the front arbor over the gate in my white picket fence right now (there's some really warped stereotype and metaphor clashing going on there!). They were on their way from my minivan to the trunk of the Prelude when they got heavy and I was waiting to have Mark help me move them. Ok, so I'm guilty there too.</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">And "coffin nails"? My mother smoked. And it killed her in an indirect but definitely-related way. I loved her dearly. After 20 years I still miss her desperately. She was trapped in the grips of nicotine addiction. She wasn't strong enough to break out of it.</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">Don't have any experience with bar brawls or cans of "WhoopAss" but I'm sure if I did I would have some compassionate understanding of a few more things than I do now. </span></p><p><span class="fullpost">It's easy to judge. It's easy to judge harshly. And it's usually not fair.</span></p><p><span class="fullpost">"Betty" has been very good to my girls. Emily says she "rocks". Tessa and Sara-Grace like her. She values the good things in Matt. She owns a restaurant and I'm so thrilled for Matt that he's marrying into the restaurant he's always wanted to have. I overheard a voicemail "Betty" left for Emily once -- just checking on her and saying to call if she needed anything. I was touched that she was looking after my child. And if "Betty" is willing to have Emily live in her house and serve in a caregiving way toward her then I owe her a debt of gratitude. </span></p><p><span class="fullpost">I just hope that she and I can be on good terms with each other. We have my children in common. I wish her happiness. I may give her a crocheted toilet paper cover for Christmas.</p></span>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1329294273272189197.post-2100665815397213182009-07-20T08:15:00.002-05:002009-07-20T23:35:25.961-05:00The Politics of Teeter Totters<span class="fullpost">In a shady corner yard on the unfamiliar side of town sits a relic from the time of my parents' childhoods. A creation styled in such a way that in my own youth I would have easily and unconsciously recognized it as "old": A red metal slide with circular handles jutting skyward at the top. Right out of 1942! Right off the pages of a <u>Dick and Jane</u> primer. An artifact of generations of children.</span><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SmKCEkLyOOI/AAAAAAAAAL8/3eBKL73pltk/s1600-h/July+2009+070.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359989521468504290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SmKCEkLyOOI/AAAAAAAAAL8/3eBKL73pltk/s400/July+2009+070.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><p><span class="fullpost">I remember slides like that (or similar but more "modern" versions) on every playground and every schoolyard of my childhood. Learning the personality of a slide was regular and intrinsic part of being a kid. Was it fast or slow? Was the slope steep or slight? Was there going to be a burn or a wet bottom involved in the process? Was there a mud puddle at the end? Would I bump off the end and find myself sitting embarrassed on the ground after a sudden dropoff? Or would I gracefully dismount and land on my feet at the end? Would I have to gather my courage at the top? Would I be sorry at the bottom? How would it feel on the way down? Would I want to run back around to the ladder and do it all again as soon as possible? </span><br /></p><br /><br /><p><span class="fullpost">When I had my own kids I learned a new dimension of slides: terror that one of my precious babies would fall off the top and "break their brain", as we say. None of them ever did but I'm convinced that was entirely due to my neurotic vigilence. There was always that brief stage in their development where my toddlers would try to simply hurl themselves into space at the top of the slide without knowing to sit down first and certainly without any instinct to hold on!</span><br /></p><br /><br /><p>I won't even go into the horror of those awful spinning "merry-go-rounds" that are so beloved to my girls in their memories but that are also, blessedly, no longer a reality in their world! I could kiss the park board members who eliminated that little deathtrap from our neighborhood park! One of them is both my friend and my stock broker. I may call him to say thank-you after I post this piece!<br /><br />But I digress. As usual.</p><br /><p>Just beyond the vintage red slide with the circle handles in the aforementioned corner yard, under the fluttering elm leaves, statuesque in the dappled sunlight of a July afternoon, stand not one but TWO teeter totters. When I spotted them earlier today my mind immediately transported me to my grade school playground and to a different age and lifestage. I could see the peeled patches and the chips in the thick forest green enamel paint and the aged, gray-brown, worn-smooth grain of the heavy wood plank in the spots it was worn bare of paint. All the details of teeter totters came cascading back to me. I had completely forgotten about teeter totters! How long has it been since I've seen one? How long has it been since I was ON one? I hadn't even realized that all the teeter totters of the world seem to have disappeared over the last couple of decades. I understand why but... oh the nostalgia!</p><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SmKCvx846MI/AAAAAAAAAMU/enNjqAAx2aI/s1600-h/July+2009+069.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359990263898499266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SmKCvx846MI/AAAAAAAAAMU/enNjqAAx2aI/s400/July+2009+069.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p>And I started wondering... have my kids ever even SEEN teeter t0tters? Have they ever been on one? So I just asked them. Both my girls had to clarify, each with a quizical look and an angled arm, that I was talking about "that thing that goes up and down". Tessa (12) remembers playing on one with Emily (15) at Woodward Park in Tulsa, the primary park of my childhood, which we went to a few times on visits to my father's (ah the repetition of the generations!). Sara-Grace (8), our youngest, claims to have never been on one. Noah (9) has. Kota (16), the oldest, has too, he informed me non-chalantly with a distinct "duh!" in his voice. Ok, so maybe I'm not quite so ancient. I guess teeter totter eradication is a child of the most recent decade.</p><br /><p>What will happen to a world without teeter totters? There is so much about life that I learned the teeter totter! How will my little one ever learn all those things that were traditionally learned on teeter totters? How will she know all the delicate politics of putting the lighter two of a threesome on one end? Or the compassion and tact involved in trying not to make the overweight kid feel bad about needing several counterparts to achieve balance? Or the pride of being bigger enough than the younger kids that it took multiples to even out the other side? Or the intricacies of just getting on the thing?</p><br /><p>What about the betrayal of someone jumping off the lower end to send the elevated end and it's human cargo crashing to the ground? We all knew not to get on with the mean kid or someone who had a grudge against us. We all learned to gauge other kids in terms of the potential risk of the teeter totter!</p><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SmKCvpgIs0I/AAAAAAAAAMM/5T6qjVP1mY8/s1600-h/July+2009+067.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359990261630415682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SmKCvpgIs0I/AAAAAAAAAMM/5T6qjVP1mY8/s400/July+2009+067.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p>What about learning the care of making sure nothing important (mostly body parts) are not underneath the contact point? Remember when someone (probably the grown victim of a bad landing!) finally got smart and put old tires underneath? </p><br /><p>What about the judgement necessary to figure out when and how far to sit in front of the handle to balance out unequal weights? Or when one might need to employ and extra strong or extra gentle push-off ? </p><br /><p>What about the balance acquired by learning to walk from one end to the other or trying to balance the thing horizontally while standing at the middle? I'm sure I built some important muscles and motor skills doing that! And I still believe that some contemplative thought processes can only be accomplished in this stance!</p><br /><p>How will my baby learn all the trust issues of teeter totters? The choreography of getting on and the getting off. That moment of realization that your counterbalance is about to let you down -- literally! And there there is the comeraderie of long chats with a whole group of kids (sometimes forgetting to continue the motion) on at the same time. </p><br /><p>The teeter totter was the leisurely respite from the motion of the swings, the speed of the slide, the exertion of the monkey bars, the competition of the basketball hoop, the itchy grit of the sand box, the nausea of the merry-go-round! It was an impomptu desk on which to scribble down the answers to that forgotten math assignment, study for a particularly ominous spelling test, or fold a piece of notebook paper into a fortune teller (which one of those boys would it tell me I'd marry?). The tetter totter could even be a descent place for a brief nap if you put your feet on the wrong side of the handle, stretched out on the plank, and could remember not to roll off the side!</p><br /><p>All rythym and partnership and dangling feet, the scales of childhood justice somehow hinge on teeter totters! They are somehow representative of the way the world goes around (or up and down) in so many ways! The teeter totter was always the place to identify a bully or establish a bond with a new pal. Somehow an interval on the teeter totter could be the beginning of relationship building. There was always something sort of intimate about getting on a teeter totter with someone. There was a bond and a partnership implied. There was a budding of something on the teeter totter. It was where sleep-overs were planned, playdates devised, and new friendships concocted. </p><br /><p>And the cadence of the inevitable teeter totter chant! "TEEE-ter TOT-ter, TEEE-ter, TOT-ter!" Be it verbal or non-verbal, that chant was always present on some level! I'm not sure I ever took a spin on the teeter totter without that chant in my head or on my lips. And when I look at the moving arm of a oil pump going up and down out in a wheat field or a cow pasture somewhere out here in the oil country of western Oklahoma, I can't help but hear the teeter totter chant in my head in relation to their similar motion.</p><br /><p>I think all the relationships in our lives could benefit from a spell on a tetter totter! I think I need to put one in my yard as a marital aid -- a demonstration of how, usually, one spouse is over-functioning to some degree while the other is underfunctioning to a complementary degree. And then the proportions change! Maybe I'll send my kids to the teeter totter to work out their differences or to learn that many things in life are on a continuum. <br /><br />Does anyone know where I can buy some teeter totter hinges? Maybe just a log and plank would suffice for now...</p><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SmKCXfmL-TI/AAAAAAAAAME/g9WtfKN7ZkA/s1600-h/July+2009+066.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359989846654581042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vtpqZFW79PU/SmKCXfmL-TI/AAAAAAAAAME/g9WtfKN7ZkA/s400/July+2009+066.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><span class="fullpost"></p></span></div></div></div>ANNIE COPPOCKnoreply@blogger.com3